The bus that leads up to my house is via Pear Street. This is a spire-inspired world, the streets are small and winding, the colors muted by an alway-sleeping sun. I don't know where to begin, but I am full of exhaustion, the coffee is disappointingly cool, weak as the milky blend I drank as a child. Even when the sky is clear, it feels moist and cold, I am waiting for the clouds to weep.
I miss New York, of course and everyone, but my missing is mediated by how tired I feel, by the quiet, by my curiosity incredibly awakened, with bright, bulging eyes. I have yet to explore the streets of Oxford, only my own, across the way from a school, and one small alleyway that I could not bear to pass.
My room is huge and bright with large, wall height windows that face out onto the front of the house. In the back is a large "garden" (yard) with groomed christmas trees (ahhh the Christmas trees, they follow me everywhere). It feels like a mix between Telluride, a 70s studio and a hotel.
There is so much to say--of the small trains in London, climbable toy trains for me; of pence and getting caught without a ticket exiting the train (which I had bought and promptly lost); of red-wine receptions with ambassadors; cobble-stone streets that I had expected and then entertained; the un-doubtable skies; the disappointment of rose tea (blech); pubs costumed as lodges; roasted lamb and peach pudding; the confirmed knowledge that I would love Notting Hill.
I have never felt so old, so alone and so able in my entire life.
