Oberlin

There's something different about being in a city. I've lived in small towns all my life, and there's a certain degree of comfort in that. You don't have to navigate a subway, hold on to your purse in a crowd, or worry about double-decker buses barreling you over as you try to cross the street. Walking in a small town, I can pay equal attention to both what's inside my head and outside in the world around me.

Not so in a city. Navigating London has for me, so far, required a constant awareness of my surroundings. I have to simultaneously watch the people on the sidewalk (so I don't run into them), the street names (so I don't get lost), the snow on the ground (so I don't slip), the stores, restaurants, and museums around me, and my walking companions (so we don't get separated). All of this paying attention leaves little room for the ambulatory daydreams to which I am so accustomed, but it has, so far, been a positive thing. I notice details that would have otherwise slipped past: the burial place of Theodoric, the bankrupt King of Corsica, a piece of Banksy's graffiti art, and the café in which Jimi Hendrix played his final concert are only three of many so far.

It feels like a triumph to notice these things, as if I've completed some sort of Sherlock Holmes scavenger hunt. But this forced awareness of my surroundings has not only led to unexpected discoveries--so far, I've not been pickpocketed, lost my way, got on the wrong train, or been hit by one of the ubiquitous black cabs that seem to drive unnecessarily fast. I'll take that as a victory. And as long as I can avoid those terrifyingly large double-decker buses, I anticipate the next three months will be full of discovery.