Well this is it, the beginning of my account of moving to the UK with little more than the clothes on my back. Hello 2003, I’m a blogger! I’ll also soon have a short-run ‘zine, which I’m hoping will capture an Edwardian-inspired-new-age take on the froyo invasion. Prepare for classist undertones and enough snaps of damask wallpaper to cover a small, yet sensible, flat.
Welcome to London! City of culture, Victorian architecture, landmark clocks, bureaucracy, and an inane instinct for handling a good queue. Big Brother is actually watching, but nobody really gives a damn.
The first thing that struck me upon landing at Heathrow Terminal 3 was how much London reminded me of an airport terminal. I’ll pause here to let your tears of laughter subside.
Even stepping out into the city proper, I couldn’t shake the feeling. While my wife, heretofore referred to as Em, and I certainly had more luggage than most, we certainly weren’t unique. Tourists and locals alike flitted around us, closely followed by everything from reasonable carry-ons to unwieldy contraptions that nearly rivalled our own.
I haven’t even begun to touch on the sheer volume of people surrounding us. Not to mention the queues. Endless queues. I don’t think the British actually enjoy them, but they nevertheless seem able to manage and navigate queues with aplomb.
That all said, after a mere few hours in the UK, following months of planning, weeks of packing, and hours over the Atlantic, I find myself a little overwhelmed.
On that note, I’m going to put this on hold for now. More to come.