Are you where you should be?

Last week I was in London. For the entire week. I went for some corporate training course and extended that into a very nice short holiday in an incredible city. It was a perfect trip because, unlike my other holidays abroad, I was able to get a taste of pretty much everything. 

We stayed in a 'studio apartment' of a cousin of a husband of a friend of mine. Well, it was called that but looked nothing like the image that may have sprung to your mind at the mention of those words. It was a small apartment. It had all the basics. It was cramped yet could have been easily categorised as comfortable accomodation for two if the furniture could be re-arranged (read: thrown out) a bit.  

So I got a taste of staying in an actual (suburban) residential neighbourhood. 

We had to travel all the way from Ealing Broadway to Canary Wharf to get to the office where we had our training. 'We' being me and my friend whose husband's cousin's studio apartment we were staying in. In order for you to appreciate what I mean by 'travel all the way', here: 

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So yup. I got to travel a long distance to work like any regular peter in London. All wrapped up and un-wrapped in the hot tube, wrapped up on way to work, unwrapped in office. so on. 

Then, since the visit wasnt the usual - oh stay for four days and see all there is to be seen of London (that is in a tourist guide / recommended on the internet / printed on the souvenir tshirt we bought too early) - I got to actually eat out at pretty normal places, go to a musical, hang out with some friends, get tired, get sleepy and head home to watch some tv and crash. 

I lie. I never watched tv - well except for the most unfunny version of whose line is it anyway (British) which I watched every morning. 

So while living what felt like would have been my normal life had I lived in London, I constantly wondered if the city was for me. 

Well. It was perfect. The roads. The trees. The sky. The houses. The office. The places to visit. To be in. Everything was perfect. 

Too fucking perfect.

For instance. While we were travelling to Canary Wharf, we need to take the 'District Line' followed by a switch to the 'Jubilee Line'. But, there was some sort of massive reconstruction something something happening with the underground - so - as a result the Jubilee F.ing Line kept going off service. So, one such time, we found ourselves in an over crowded Bank station. The announcements are repetitive and basically telling everyone to stay calm and walk on the right hand side of the station. 

Noone. Made. A. Sound.

Nothing. Not one complaint. Not one extra heavy sigh. No tch. No fahk. Nothing.

It was like ZOMBIELAND. They formed their line, they waited, walked, stood, and stared. 

I could have screamed.

It was then I realised that perfect was not my thing. I disliked perfect. Made me want to lash out. To dirty. To tear. To break something. I could not wait to get home.  

However, after I got back - to smelly and hot Bombay - I was not entirely sure about London. About the great Abroad. I felt pretty certain I belonged in India, but I wanted a defining moment. A clear stamp. 

--

I am at work - its 11pm - and an associate offered me some Vada Pav. 

I bit into it and I knew quite easily. I got my stamp and my defining moment. Home is where the food that makes me happy is. It was spicy and yummy. My entire time in London I couldve cried for lack of food that made me remotely satisfied. Here it was. In plenty. 

Food you love 

Family you love

Get them both to the same place

and you'll be happy.

Ok maybe not you. but me. yup