I'm not much of a blogger.
I've tried, on several occasions, but the art of blogging eludes me. I lose interest quickly and somehow never manage to put together a numbers of sentences that together form a coherent, interesting account of who I am. And seeing how I get paid to write, none of that makes any sense. I think the idea of writing about myself confuses me, which is absurd. We Always write about ourselves, even if we don't want to. Stories are just letters we never dared to mail.
But as I spend half of my time living abroad and the people back at home would like to know what I'm up to, I better give it another go. Don't get too invested; it won't last.
Hi. My name is Gianni. I'm 25 years old and a week ago I packed my things and moved to London. If you're reading this, you should re-think what you're doing with your life (can you really not think of a better use of your time?) and you probably already know who I am, so I won't elaborate too much on who I am and where I'm from. There will be plenty of time for that.
So, London? It's really not all that different from home. Except it is. There's a number of vital differences, things you see if you start looking (having too much time on your hands will do that for you). For instance, people are nice. Like, really nice. These might be the happy goggles talking as I'm new to this place, but even cashiers smile and act polite. The Indian guy selling me the best curry I ever had, the bank clerk that overheard I was a sports writer and wanted to talk footy: people seem genuinely nice.
They're also terrible at driving. Now I know I've only recently managed to get my hands on a driver's license myself and am in no place to Judge anyone, but I've seen more bad driving in a single week of London than six years of Cote Landaise. And Frenchies aren't exactly great drivers either.
Food's quite cheap, transport's pretty expensive. I live in White City, which is right in between Loftus Road (QPR gamedays are noisy) and Westfield Shopping Centre. The Central Line will take me to the heart of London and all of its tourist traps in under 20 minutes, Sheperd's Bush Library is right around the corner. Rent is manageable (for London standards) and the international mix of flatmates makes for some interesting food recipes.
The backdrop may be quite different, but life itself is quite similar to the one I was leading two weeks ago. I've only been here for a week and I like this place, but it's clear as day that this is not my home. And I actually miss home. The more things change, the more they stay the same and with age comes a reluctance to accept change as a good thing. All of this feels similar to the trips I took to the Carribean and France in the past: temporary jobs rather than permanent relocations.
People are doing their very best to make me feel welcome though. Most of my collegues are just moving to London as well (and we'll be meeting up later this week) and seem hell-bent on making me feel at home. I won't start my new job for another two weeks and outside of my flatmates I've yet to truly meet new people, so it's far too early to draw any conclusions. As of right now, I like London just fine and even though my first week in The Big Smoke has been far from perfect (and even dreadful and difficult at times) I think that right now, this is where I need to be. And that's the best I can do.
So as you can see: the more things change, the more they stay the same. I'm a nostalgic, and I was never particularly good at letting go. I won't let something as trivial as the North Sea change that.
Happy birthday, little brother. We'll be together soon. In the meantime, here's a quote:
“It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.”
― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent
Take care everyone.
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