I set out after a Wednesday work shift, listening to the start of Stephen Fry's long-awaited Odyssey on my way home to pack.

The last time I was in London was 21 years ago. I was 15 years old, had never been to a Western country before, and came here to learn English at a summer school and homestay in Bournemouth. My only actual interest at the time was having a boyfriend. I managed somewhat, -ish, as in I gave away my first kiss to a Brazilian boy in my class.

My parents gave me some US dollars to exchange into pounds, and a digital camera to document my life. I spent all but £20 of the money, and took so many photos that I had to unload the memory card 3 times onto CDs, and most of the photos weren't even of people, but of buildings and random stuff I saw. All because anything and everything in that country wowed me.

So that was the question that came with me on the trip: after all these years and so much of the world, how would London look to me now?

At the V&A that day, there was a tiny concert in the grand entrance hall played by children who're learning string instruments. It was endearing. The audience was as supportive as the kids’ efforts were earnest.

There was an amusing scene when I took the tube to Charing Cross one day. Coming out of the tunnel, there was an endless stream of Crystal Palace fans heading the opposite way chanting “Eeeeeagle! Eeeeeagle!” An older English lady walking just ahead of me was supremely annoyed at this and took every opportunity to scream at the football fans to f-off. The fans, rather bemused by her, took to chanting even louder and more obnoxiously. With the echoes of the station, it made for the rowdiest soundscape.

Then, the second I emerged from the station and literally without skipping a beat, I walked into a great river of pro-Palestinian protestors flowing down the Strand.

It was one of those moments that hit me viscerally, how endlessly energetic London is.

I got to catch Photo London this time, which was very exciting. Even in the space of grabbing a cool drink before heading back to the galleries to walk some more, I happened to strike up a conversation with fascinating strangers.

I celebrated my birthday here! By going to an urban village fête on Greenwich. I joked that all these festivities were in my honor :p

And just like that, yours truly turned a year older :)

The day after my birthday, I met M. But before that happened, I met an even nuttier person at Hyde Park. She was making pottery sitting on a park bench, using some home-made contraption. This was how she explained the decision to make a life out of this, “I told myself: Maddie, there are literally people out there making porn. At least you're making something beautiful in the world!” When she was done spinning this particular urn, she decided it wasn't worth firing it up, so she just planted it on top of a fence.

What's up with the English and their beautiful flowers?

Westminster was a queer experience. Here was a model for demonstrating national greatness very different from the highlighted monumentalism that I'm used to. Instead it's how hectically the great names of different eras and legacies jostle for space, and how easily you could walk over Charles Darwin without registering. For a house of God though, the one thing it didn't quite feel like was holy, except for the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, who was most likely here involuntarily.

One of my favorite memories of the trip was stumbling upon Mr. Fogg's Tavern one night around Covent Garden. A guy with a great mustache entertained on the piano, and everybody in that crowded pub was happily raising their glass and singing along. I grabbed a pint of Guinness and did the same. It was, well, jolly! We sang the Bohemian Rhapsody once, but when the pianist called for the last round, the crowded voted noisily for an encore of the Bohemian Rhapsody—of course, you get the most song for the song.

I was perching at a comfortable spot near the window and there I spotted a friendly smile and the only other Asian face in the crowd. We struck up a conversation. Turned out he was a Mongolian guy based in Utah, and though younger than me was already a father of three. We tipsily figured out that his cousin must be friends with my Mongolian friend whose epic wedding in Ulaanbaatar I'd attended back in 2019. We were so happy about this random connection, which we simply assumed to be true, that we walked to the next pub and ordered another round. We toasted to the 30,000 sheep that Mongolia had gifted to China in solidarity at the start of the pandemic.

And can I say how romantic it was to see the British Museum (almost) empty, during an out-of-hours tour of the Greek Collection… I put on some film scores by Gabriel Yared and just reveled

Then the crowds came in; and I loved watching the school children fanning out across the Egyptian collection, untamed in both their wonder and irreverence. They would stick their hands into things, blow onto stuff—to them it was all so weird and new, as it should be.

I'm such a big fan of all the volunteers at the British Museum! Here a very old gentleman was letting me handle a prehistoric tool.

I remember really liking the film The Dig about the unearthing of the Sutton Hoo Treasures in the midst of WWII. In fact, because of that, seeing the artifacts in person actually moved me to tears.

I got to see RY for the first time since Berkeley :) Afterwards we visited her partner's rowing club along the riverbank in Hammersmith.

When I was in London, one of my heroes—the Brazilian photographer Sebastião Salgado—passed away. I was quite shaken by it. But perhaps the strongest feeling to emerge for me was the sanctity of photography as a craft. I told M about this. We were originally going to go to Notting Hill. But instead he suggested that we go to the National History Museum to see the new Wildlife Photographer exhibit, and that's what we did.

And I got to see C, ever her multi-talented and fashionable self

Borough Market was touristy, fine, but still charming as hell. I bought a sliver of the best Blue Cheese I'd ever had which, once I got back to Canada, developed into a proper addiction.

“Spring is the only season”

The Ja quarterly №02