'I already almost have the tan of a 60-year-old borderline alcoholic pensioner who lives on one of those horribly tacky Spanish islands and sings karaoke during night-time just to pass the rest of the life that's left / My hair has grown a bit and bright red lipstick matches my tan. Carefree. / Otherwise, my bags wait to be packed and the flight departs in four nights. / I'm going to miss Helsinki a bit and I can't imagine what it will be like to leave it permanently behind in September. / When a long-lost australian messaged me out of the blue a few days ago, I answered his message with a recollection of everything that's happened since he left. It made up quite a list, of which I am both proud and extremely excited. / I have no idea what's going to happen in Copenhagen. Maybe nothing, maybe everything.'
Almost exactly a year ago I had my bags packed and I was waiting for the flight to Copenhagen. It feels like yesterday. I cried at the airport. When I landed in Copenhagen I breathed easier.
Everything and nothing happened that Summer. It rained throughout the months. I learned to make coffee at a high speed, take rejection easier, play drinking games and devise a full meal for a mere amount of pennies and dimes. Our apartment was like a dream, but sometimes life wasn't.
Now I'm sitting in a café on Old Street, trying to make sense of the anatomy of late 20th century imperialism and myself. It's raining as it stereotypically always is in London. I'm wearing lipstick exactly the same shade as I was a year ago. No tan. Bleached hair again. I'm listening to Danish rap and I'm still baffled at how I half-learned to understand what they're saying.
From here, the Lauderdale Tower looks like a dark tower from a weird 1980's fantasy film.
And Central London looks like home.
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