Articles By: Alethea Alden
Our flat is on a busy road in North London, one of the main thoroughfares connecting two neighborhoods together. Jamaican and Polish barber shops coexist across the road from each other, while betting houses compete with the endless numbers of Turkish kebab shops for the last five pound note in your pocket.
I ended up standing in line at the Uffizi museum in Florence for two hours. My boyfriend Jarl and I were in the line for people who had not thought ahead to make reservations. I held our place in line while he went to get us chocolate gelato, which dripped down my chin while I ate it
There is something funny about being on airplanes, being in such close vicinity with people that were strangers only moments before and who after the duration of the flight will become strangers again. During the time period spent in the air, people become more than strangers and less than acquaintances–all collectively praying together that your plane does not crash.
“Do you want to drive, or should I?” My boyfriend Jarl and I were renting (or “hiring” as the English say) a car to move from the temporary flat we had been living in for the last couple of months since arriving in London, across the city to a new flat