Anglotopia

Editor’s Note: We’ve got another columnist starting this week at Anglotopia! We’ve managed to get another American Expat living in London to blog about life in London. Her name is Katherine Kern and I met her at Blog Indiana, of all places. After some time at home in America – she’s returned to London with her new British fiance and starts off her first post by telling us all about her first move to London two years ago. Welcome Katherine!

Smiths of Smithfield

Just a little over two years ago I moved to London to go to grad school.  Although it had always been my dream to move there, I really struggled with the decision.  When I visited Cass Business School I knew it was the place for me.  But even though I was accepted to the program and received scholarship money, I wavered a bit when it came to actually committing to giving up my life in Cincinnati and moving to London.

I had always loved London and jumped at every chance to visit.  My mum was born and raised in London and I spent many summers there visiting family.  Every time I went to London I fell even more in love with city.  But when it actually came to leaving home and moving there, I was slightly terrified.

I spent a good two weeks going back and forth, trying to decide rationally if it made sense.  Everyone was telling me to go, reminding me it had been my dream forever.  But it was easy for them to say and hard for me to do.  Until one day I realized I couldn’t NOT go.  I could argue my way through either side of the decision, but when it came down to it, I had to go, because I couldn’t not go.  If I didn’t move I would always wonder, what if?  I would always think about what might have happened if I had gone.

So I moved.  I said goodbye to all my friends and family, several times.  I went back and forth between being excited and being scared to death.   I whittled everything I owned down to two 50 lb. suitcases and a carry on.  I didn’t sleep the night before I left and I felt like I was having an out of body experience as I boarded my flight to London.

My cousin and aunt met me at Heathrow when I landed and helped me to my new place in the City of London.  When I checked in to the residence hall and found my new room in a shared flat, I was depressed.  I had left my beautiful apartment on a square in Cincinnati and moved into a small white cell that I wasn’t allowed to decorate.  My aunt and cousin did their best to cheer me up, telling me I would love London and that I was near family.  As we walked around the city that Sunday, looking for a place to eat, I wondered several times what the heck I was doing there.

Anyone who has spent a Sunday in the Square Mile will tell you that it is beyond quiet.  The usual black suits and hustle and bustle were nowhere to be found.  As someone who hadn’t spent very much time in the city, let alone a Sunday in the city, I was shocked to find cafes and shops closed.  Again I wondered what exactly I was getting myself in to and how I would survive the year.

As we walked towards Smithfield market, I saw that even Starbucks was closed and my despair deepened. I wondered how soon I could get a flight home.  But as we turned the next corner, upbeat music wafted towards me and I saw people spilling out of a restaurant and onto a sidewalk as they drank bloody mary’s and mimosas in the (rare) London sun. We sat down and ordered our full English breakfast, surrounded by the buzz of people rehashing the craziness of the night before. The restaurant I was in was Smiths of Smithfield, known more commonly as SOS. It was surely a sign, this wouldn’t be a big deal to many people, but at that moment it was a message to me… I was going to be ok and, more than that, I was going to love living in London.