With Love, From London
You touch down in London town on an uncharacteristically sunny Sunday morning. You’re obviously in the Universe’s good graces.
You and your friends decide to knock out the touristy stuff on day one. You want to feel like locals for the rest of your trip - two out of the three of you have been here before. You’re practically regulars at this. Someone got shoved to the side when they stood to the left on an escalator? This is London, they should’ve known better. Oyster card tapping? You’re already a pro (although you’re humbled later in the week when you’re told that Oyster cards are a thing for tourists now - everyone else just uses Apple Pay).
You throw on baggy white Dickies and a simple black bodysuit. It’s sunny, but you could use an extra layer so you reach for your favorite Djerf Avenue Breezy Shirt (blue striped, of course). For shoes, you choose your red 550s.
Big Ben is a mere 10 minute walk from your Waterloo hotel. You snap a few selfies, wander around the Westminster Abbey grounds, and then weave your way through throngs of tourists to Trafalgar Square. You stop and listen to a busker before crossing the square and deciding to explore the side streets, dipping into Dover Street Market for a museum-like shopping experience. At 3pm you head down to the riverbank, where you’ve booked a combo London Eye trip and river cruise package for £43, and it’s worth every cent. pence? pound? After enjoying sky-high views of the city and having nuggets of London history spewed at you in a thick Cockney accent by your 80-something river cruise guide, Mac, the jet lag hits.
Your first London dinner needs to be a classic. Fish and chips are the obvious choice, so it’s down to the pub across from your hotel for the inaugural supper. Then, you sleep for 12 hours.
Monday
It’s Monday morning and the weather has turned decidedly characteristic. Light grey clouds darken the sky, but the rain seems to be holding off. It’s still warm enough for a sundress, so you don a pink satin maxi and top it off with an oversized blazer to shield you from the impending drizzle. Cowboy boots should be a safe bet for shoes - they’re comfortable, and they’ll withstand the intermittent rain that the forecast predicts.
Oxford Street is the first stop of the day. The morning is filled with strolling, shopping, and flipping your pocket-sized umbrella from Boots up and down as the rain starts and stops. You pay a visit to Liberty London and marvel at the floral displays out front. You round the corner and you’re on Carnaby Street, the bustling pedestrian shopping street that was one of many study abroad stomping grounds. You point out the pub where you had your first-ever London meal (White Horse), and the other pub where you and a friend once spent a sunny afternoon drinking and enjoying the view that is London businessmen at happy hour (John Snow). Your stroll takes you back out onto Regent Street and through rows of classic London townhouses to Regent’s Park for a pass through Queen Mary’s Rose Garden before you lead your friends to the piece de résistance of the afternoon - Attendant Coffee Roasters, a small coffee shop in a converted underground public toilet. You sip your coffee daintily from the urinals.
Then it’s back to Carnaby Street for dinner and drinks, accompanied by a penchant for people watching. You settle on Shakespeare’s Head, a pub with prime views of the lively scene on the street. After an hour or so, two boys that look about your age sit down a few tables away from you and your friends. Bingo. Stray looks fly back and forth while you sip on your poorly made Paloma (you knew you should’ve gone with the draught cider), until one of the boys breaks the ice. Within minutes you’re all gathered around one table, laughing at each others’ poor renditions of your native accents and shaking your heads at the differences between American and English culture. They don’t get the whole cowboy-boots-and-sundress look. You can’t believe the number of bank holidays they get every year. They’re really curious about frat parties. You tell them they’re the real deal.
After a second round at the pub (cider this time), all five of you wander over to a blues bar where you take turns showing off your dance moves, and then to a Karaoke Box where you rent a room. A few vodka sodas and off-key renditions of ABBA songs later, you part ways at the Oxford Street tube station with a kiss on the cheek and an exchange of numbers resulting in a WhatsApp group chat that is active for a whopping 24 hours.
Tuesday
The clouds and rain prevail on Tuesday, so you ready yourself for a day spent mostly indoors. That means the white Dickies and 550s again, this time paired with a poplin Ganni blouse with huge puff sleeves. Chef’s kiss.
After singing its praises for years, you would be remiss not to show your friends Borough Market. It’s just as perfect as you remembered it to be. You wander through the stalls for a while, eyeing the spreads of vegetables, cheeses, bakery creations, and the like. Shakespeare’s Globe is only a few blocks away so you head down a couple of dark alleyways to check it out, and then around another corner to Tate Modern, where you look at art while waiting out the rain. You sit down at Padella Pasta for lunch; a plate of burrata and a serving of freshly made pasta later, you’re ready for a nap.
That night you see Wicked on the West End. You wear a green knit dress and vintage Gucci mules - very on theme. You and your friends all choke up at the end of the performance. It’s that good.
Wednesday
More rain, seriously?? Whatever, it’s London. You were ready for it. If you ever want to live here (and you do), you’ll have to get used to it. Better whip the cowboy boots back out, this time paired with the red Réalisation Par dress you’ve been saving for this trip. The perfect Instagram outfit debut.
Okay, the rain actually isn’t too bad. It’s misting intermittently, but nothing can dampen your spirits. It’s Covent Garden day.
The first stop is Le Labo, and then Glossier, and the Covent Garden Market itself. You browse through the stalls, stop to watch another busker (opera this time!), and make sure to take a detour through Neal’s Yard, a picturesque alleyway that is every Instagrammer’s dream. One of your friends suggests vintage shopping - of course you’re on board. You totally luck out at Vintage Threads with an Issey Miyake top and a pair of men’s Stone Island shorts. On your hunt for coffee (and the elusive public toilet) you stumble across the stage door for Cock. You loiter for a second - after all, you’ve seen the TikToks of Jonathan Bailey waving out a window at fans - but alas, the Viscount is nowhere to be seen.
After your day of aimless meandering, you’re ready for the main event of the night: the Mamma Mia! party. You have no idea what to expect - a concert? A play? An all-out party? It ends up being all of the above. You’re served a four-course meal and treated to a live performance of ABBA songs that accompany a brand-new storyline. Storyline be damned, you just want to sing along (which you do, in between bites). By the end of the show, serotonin is running high. What a blast this cast must have - it makes you miss being on stage. Is it too late for you to go back and train in a new performance art??
Thursday
Crap. You should’ve packed an extra sundress. Instead, you’re left to rifle through a smattering of random basics that you threw into your suitcase at the last minute. A plain white t-shirt and blue jeans get pulled from the mix, along with an oversized black blazer and blue Forum Lows for comfort. “Okay,” you think to yourself, “not too shabby for the bottom of the barrel.”
You get a bit of a later start, so it’s almost noon by the time you board the tube to Notting Hill, ready to fuel your dreams of one day living in an equally picturesque location with your very own William Thatcher. It’s another day full of wandering, and strolling, and meandering, and browsing, and any other verb that fits under the category of casual exploration. You tick off Portobello Road Market, the rows of colorful houses, and Kensington Gardens. A garden-side croissant at Kensington is the perfect afternoon pick-me-up.
You decide on an early dinner at Cubana, a place you’ve passed every day on your walk from your hotel to the nearby Waterloo underground station. Good choice. The food is delicious, the happy hour deal lands you with 2 margs for the price of one, and best of all, there’s a DJ. You don’t know it yet, but this isn’t the last time you’ll see him.
Thursday night seems like as good a night as any to hit the town so you venture to Soho, ready for whatever the night throws at you. What it throws at you are drinks at a swanky Soho bar, paid for by a couple of opportunistic London lads that you shirk off shortly after, and tourist-packed lines leading to club doors. You decide to cut your losses and head back to the hotel so you can rest up for your final day. That is not what the fates have in mind.
As you pass Cubana on the way back to your hotel, you happen to look inside. The cover of night on your side of the window reveals a lit basement… no, literally. It’s lit. Bumping. Club can’t handle me vibes. The restaurant seems to have turned its lower level into a wild party - DJ, disco ball, and all. You and your friends exchange a look and immediately change course. Minutes later you’re descending the restaurant stairs into the heart of the party, a sweaty vodka soda in hand. Everyone in attendance seems to be on a level of their own - a group of short European boys are dancing wildly in a corner; a few girls sip calmly on drinks in another; a very, very large Scottish man gets dragged up the stairs by no less than four security guards. You and your friends dance the night away under the lights of the disco ball.
Friday
Your last full day starts with packing, a mandatory pre-travel covid test, and a sense of dread towards your impending return to reality. You allow yourself five minutes of sulking time in the morning before pulling out your final outfit. This one’s a good one.
Shoreditch, an artsy, vibrant neighborhood in east London, is on the docket for the day, so you need to match the vibe of the area. The people there will appreciate your Issey Miyake top, you’re sure of it. It has to be the star of the show, so you pair it with your Dickies once again (they really carried this trip), and your 550s to tie in the black color blocking.
Breakfast is hastily consumed as you rush to finish packing, and then it’s out the door to the tube. This commute is a bit longer than the others you’ve taken this trip - you need to take one line east, and another north. Easy enough. You arrive at the Shoreditch High Street station and step onto the street. You feel a wave of excitement run through you, one that is born from the uniquely thrilling experience of entering a completely new environment, yet feeling inexplicably at home. The day begins to look even brighter.
You weave through the streets of Shoreditch until you find your first destination: Brick Lane Vintage Market. It’s a sprawling underground market with tens of stalls and thousands of pieces seemingly collected from every corner of space and time. You hit the jackpot with some Italian leather kitten heeled boots, and thank whatever benevolent vintage gods have been smiling down upon you this whole week. Such a successful vintage shopping trip warrants an afternoon coffee break, so you pick a place that embodies everything a trendy coffee shop should: it’s beige, everything is organic, and the walls are strewn with contemporary art. You sip your coffee from a glass carafe and watch as various artsy types pass by on the street.
Your friend has a cousin who lives around here, “somewhere between Shoreditch and Hackney,” she says. You meet up with the cousin and her husband; they show you their quiet neighborhood and take you for a stroll through Victoria Park. It’s peaceful, you decide, but not a place you’d like to live. Hustle and bustle are more your speed.
The afternoon peters on contentedly, not the rushed frenzy of last minute sightseeing that is often characteristic of trips like this. A pre-dinner pint at a pub in the park, sushi at hole-in-the-wall establishment back in Shoreditch, and a contented stroll past the waxing nightlife scene make up the final hours of your trip. You close your eyes that night feeling more confident than ever that one day in the future, you’ll call this city home.
xo, Ellie