Thursday morning, slightly more than two weeks ago. I’ve just arrived in London for a conference, and while walking to the hotel my sleep deprived brain is jolted into overdrive. Something about this street, but what? Got to follow the colleagues, but what? And it hits me. I’ve been here before.
I’ve been here before, exactly one year ago. Exact same street, exact same weather. I had just been rejected for a job teaching in Africa, after making it through to the final 24 out of more then a thousand candidates. I was left with no idea on how to proceed with my life, and 8 hours to wait before the train home, optimistically planned to take occasion of a paid for trip. Optimistically, because the rejection left me feeling like shit, and neither the British Museum nor the quintessentially me-ish hours long random walk changed that.A shit day to start a shit month.
Exactly one year later, I happen to recognize one of the many streets I walked on that wondering, but it’s hard to recognize it. The street’s the same, so is the weather. It’s me who’s different. I’ve found a job which treats me well, and is discombobulation different enough from week to week to occupy my mind, keeping it from being restless. My friends are amazing, a rag-tag group of misfits that somehow seem to fit together, not unlike a rickety Swedish nightstand. Classy pressed recycled pinewood. Nicked by all the moving. Also something on the side. You probably are intuiting it by now, but let me spell it out for you, even though it’s hard for me to type these letters in sequence.
Thursday morning, slightly more then two weeks ago, looking at this street I saw a year before, I am happy.