One year ago yesterday we moved to London from New York. I remember the bon voyage party, what our empty apartment in Brooklyn looked like when we said goodbye, I remember the car service to the airport, I remember taking off on the flight. The landing part is the blur. So many suitcases, corporate housing, confusion at the lack of baby carrots for sale and Bryan descending into the misery of the flu. And then within days- our first taste of a housecall by a doctor.
This anniversary seems easy to me. It wasn’t hard work to fall in love with London, with Europe, with living abroad. It never stopped being exciting to explore the city, welcome friends and family from the U.S. and plan the next trip. The sound of the accent now sounds like rhythmic background noise in the medulla of my brain. Unless one of us is annoyed- then we talk about how much we hate the accent.
What else can I say. Cheers.