return call.

Eight months is as long as I'll make it

From the time I left London in May to when I plan to return for my first visit in January. It's amazing to me that eight months has lapsed when I already feel years away from all that I experienced there. I am eager to return and see old aquaintences -- who really, in the context of time, can hardly be called old friends at all. A year ago, I didn't even know them.

Yet somehow I feel like my $500 flight has afforded me a trip into my past. I dream of the familiar smells of the Warwick Avenue tube stop and the hussle bussle of black-clad parliamentarians around Westminster. For the little time I spent there, and for how shortly ago it was, I feel oddly like I'm going back to high school ... a place where I spent years of my life, a long long time ago ... or again, so it seems.

My time in the UK was a whirlwind experience. Removed from my culture and friends I was a different person. Part of me is worried that when I go back, everything will have changed. Part of me is worried that when I go back, everything will still be the same.

I suppose it will just be best to go into my return trip without any expectations. I'll just soak it up as another experience to add to the dusty collection on my internal London shelf. Something to sit among the ticket stubs to Cabaret and stolen Guiness pint glasses from the pub, which I've since lost -- but miss dearly.