Sir Winston Hopsworth

Mornings are always so sweet. Before, I'd be upset at seeing the sun thru my blinds, but now I find comfort in curling up on my emerald couch, sipping my first glass of water for the day, and flipping thru one of the books I bought at a Waterstones in London. I'd been meaning to write about Europe since the day I came back, but I couldn't seem to ever find the right time, or the right words. Too many sentences began with "I", it felt too much like I was writing for some invisible audience, and I know that regardless of how descriptive I could possibly be, nothing could ever come close to the actual thing. I can try.

It started with a concert: Japanese Breakfast. Michelle Zauner is one of those people that's born to be an artist, and from the outside, it's evident. A songwriter, a composer, a storyteller. Her memoir, Crying in H Mart, left me breathless, page after page. I'd always wanted to be a concert person. A loud person, jumping up and down with the crowd, uncaring of my hair or how my skirt looks. Again, pandering to some unseen voyeur, as if living my life fully would come with some unbearable and unseen judgement. I went to the Deftones concert in March, but this would be different. This was London.

London. A city–much like New York to my 16-year-old mind–full of art and culture. A melting pot of working class folk, like myself, like my friends. I wanted to see Big Ben, try fish and chips, and practice my bad English accent for shits and giggles. After such a difficult year, full of growth and loss and more growth, I figured I owed it to myself to have the experience. It just piled on from there. The concert, the food I wanted to try, the tours, the shopping...I deserved it. 

Jen and I (the friend I'd travel with) had decided to go ALL. OUT. We'd seen a TikTok about how the train between London and Paris was only two hours, so of course, we impulsively booked it, along with a quaint hotel in the 9th district. As bloody scared as I was (see what I did there), there was this quiet excitement in me that stirred something up that hasn't shut up since. Awe? Wanderlust? Curiosity.

The boutique guesthouse we stayed at was located in Primrose Hill, and bordered in heavy iron gates and evergreen shrubs. A picturesque place, with giant windows, a bus stop right out front, and a stray cat to guard the grounds. Our mezzanine came with a mini kitchen, a bathroom, and a queen-sized bed. No AC, and of course, we were traveling during a heatwave. 

Two small fans stayed plugged in the entirety of our stay, precariously balanced on a tiny, circular table, and aimed directly at our sweating faces. The first night, we only had the energy to grab dinner, and walked around the corner to a pub called The Princess of Wales, where I ordered a diet coke, and a chicken caesar salad. The lettuce was crisp and fresh, and there were whole anchovies mixed in. I took a bite, and decided I preferred the briny fish blended into the dressing, and placed them on the edge of my plate as a "no thank you!" 

Love Island had yet to come to a close, so as I laid on the ground near the kitchenette, I listened to Jen give me live updates from the Mezzanine; who kissed who, what bombshell was introduced, and why everyone was mad at Huda. It was a miracle we fell asleep in that heat. 

The next morning, we put on our linen dresses and walked to Camden Town, where we bought iced peach matchas, strolled around the touristy parts, and browsed overpriced magnets and bottle openers. We hopped on the bus, sat at the top, and made our way to Selfridges. I bought a stuffed bunny (who my partner helped me name Sir Winston Hopsworth) before making my way to the perfume section with Jen, where we indulged on fragrances named after London landmarks. The sales guy hit on me and I smiled generously, making eyes at Jen that said, "can he hurry up and ring me up so we can eat?" We feasted on tomato and arugula pizza, creamy pasta with white sauce, and two cocktails, mine flavored with amaretto cherries. 

We walked until my feet grew blisters, and even then, I slapped on a bandaid and continued on. To Waterstones, where the shelves were lined with UK-cover books (obviously). I felt like a kid in a candy store. I kept picking up books, stacking them in my arms, until the tower of words I was holding was cartoonishly tall, and the woman working there offered me a basket. I asked her for her recommendations, and we skirted around the store, adding to the collection. 

I thought about what her life was like. Working in a small bookshop like this, meeting tourists like me, from so far away and so vastly different, suggesting great reads nevertheless. I wondered just how expensive rent was in a city like London, and how much her gig must've paid. Then, curiously, immediately came to the conclusion that it didn't matter. It didn't matter if she didn't live a lavish lifestyle, or if she didn't own a car, and took the non-airconditioned bus the same as everyone else. I could see myself as her, and almost wished I was her; to pluck books from shelves all day, to happily greet customers and know the last names of so many famous authors, to recall which books were in stock and which were not, simply out of popularity.

Still, I think about her, and my own career, my own life. A simple book suggestion lit a fire in me, and I remembered how comforting it was to quiet my mind and enter someone else's via a paperback. 

We finished that night with an evening tour of the city, and I joked about how small Big Ben actually was. Our guide taught us about all the lovely architecture and its history, about Mick Jagger dropping out of school, and the London Eye. Although the UK is always just one step behind the US as far as shit policies go, there's a clear reverence for preservation. Americans always want new; a new house, a new car, new shoes. Every building is torn down to make space for something modern, sleek, and washed in Millennial gray. What happened to charm? I want to see electric blue buildings, tiled stairs, and intricately and bright painted signage. Less billboard advertisements. More clever street markings.

The next day, we ate fish and chips. And holy fuck. 

Jen and I joked for MONTHS about how bad British food looked, but the plate of perfectly battered cod, mushy peas, and chips was incredible. We shared a squeeze of lime overtop, and each had a Hugo spritz. Over the next few days, we laughed over how seemingly ALL the food was good. Our snacking included Dubai chocolate strawberries, blueberry oatmilk matchas, gooey chocolate chip and toffee cookies, strawberry and mango mochi, lemon and blueberry scones, passionfruit bobas and more. Over soft and tart bites, we caught about life stuff, Miffy, and makeup. I laid on the floor again (what I had come to describe as "floor time") and told her about the man I was seeing. 

I told her about how I met him at such an unexpected time, but how much I could really see a future with him. About how he helped me name my bunny. About how much he made me laugh, and about how much he felt like home. About how much was still so uncertain but seemingly for the first time, I was accepting of all of this. The whole trip started to piece together, and quietly understood what I'd been missing out on for so long. That often times, the best things were always on the other side of fear. An incredible trip with a friend, a loving and warm relationship, a life where I accept I don't actually know shit, but also, that those are such terms and conditions of being happy, and present.

Happy watching Phantom of The Opera. Happy to send a photo of myself to my lover. Happy to look at the fresh flowers, curated beautifully in nearly every other storefront. Happy to browse rock n' roll t-shirts, antiques in Notting Hill and the best pizza there as well. Happy to see all the townhomes with their toony like doorknobs and brightly colored facades. Happy to crack inside jokes with my friend. Happy to add multiple totes to my ever-growing collection of bags. Happy to goof up on which day to get our custom passport covers, and Happy to circle back to Notting Hill to get them after all. Happy to walk to the church across the street in the morning, to Pedlar's Pitstop, to grab a milky coffee. Happy to jump up and down at the Japanese Breakfast concert, singing along. Happy to be a concert person. Just Happy.

We took Winston (Winnie) with us on the Eurostar. I listened to "Diving Woman" by Japanese Breakfast, still elated from the night before. As the train whizzed by the France countryside, I thought about what life could look like there. Quieter, for sure. Maybe in a cottage. Maybe not too far outside of Paris. Maybe with the man I was falling in love with, close to his family. Close enough to anywhere in Europe, where we could both work on our passion projects freely, and still come home to our little sanctuary. Where I could dance around in a linen dress and finally re-learn French. C'est dificile, mais, je peux le faire! Slowly but surely, I could feel my heart warming up to the idea of a life like that. 

I never thought I would, either. I always wanted to be living in a loud, bustling city. I always wanted to be fiercely independent and free, never fully grounded in one spot. Maybe it was therapy, maybe it was time, maybe it was life and the world opening wider with the more confidence and humility I gained, but it's started to feel not-so-scary. Or still scary, but with the wisdom that this fear was also a sort of clause in the terms and conditions of falling in love.

Paris. The city of love.

Home to the Seine, where Jen and I caught an evening boat ride. We breathed in the antiquated architecture, and the sparkling Eiffel Tower, before heading back to our little hotel room with sweets and wine. We laid in bed and watched bad reality TV, and I let my mind wander, recounting our steps around the city. Paris is not my favorite city; things close early, you're essentially guaranteed to run into a plume of secondhand smoke sometime throughout the day, and the food is alright. There's a charm to it, though; the locals take long lunch breaks, they sit outside their cafes, indulging in sweet drinks and chatter over hors d'oeuvres. There's a kind of freedom there that's refreshing. 

Even Montmartre, with its thousand steps, is full of elderly artists, relaxed and smoking between portraits. They must've sketched a million eyes, and regretful of not having my portrait done some ten years before, I let one translate my dark hair and wide cheeks onto parchment. A few passerby's recorded me while he found my face on his paper; I tried to keep smiling, silently hating any kind of attention, but thinking, well, it must look impressive. That's subjective at best, but the experience matters most!

We ended our Paris trip with a visit to The Palais Garnier, an extraordinary historic opera house, the exact one to inspire Phantom of The Opera. We sat in chairs that were sat in some hundred years prior, and I thought about how sweet it was, knowing how much humans have always loved art and performance. Sometimes we're adorable. Sometimes.

–

Being back in Los Angeles is always great, because it's been home for nearly three years now. I'm excited thinking about future trips to Europe, but I've also been learning the art of enjoying the present, so. I will enjoy my stinky little graffiti-wrapped city, and all that it has to offer. I'll still hug Winnie when I'm sleeping and think about all the books and red double decker buses, because they're sweet memories, they're mine, and earned and deserve them.

Sincerely,
Elena

cover art: elena fiorenza gatti