London, One Wrong Turn at a Time

The first thing London taught me was that the map is only a suggestion.

I trusted the Underground for exactly one day — down the stairs, into the dark, up somewhere that looked like everywhere else. On the second morning I missed my stop on purpose, walked out into the wrong neighbourhood, and the city finally introduced itself: a man selling flowers who didn't have my change and waved me off anyway, a bookshop the width of a hallway, rain that arrived without any warning at all.

The wrong bus, the right morning

I got on the 24 going the wrong direction and rode it to the end because I couldn't work out how to admit I'd made a mistake. It turned out to be the best hour of the trip — top deck, forehead on the glass, a whole grey city sliding past.

I kept getting lost, and the getting-lost kept turning into the part I remembered.

By the last evening I stopped checking my phone. I let the streets be longer than they needed to be. Somewhere near the river I realised I wasn't trying to get anywhere, and that, finally, felt like the point.