In a couple of hours, it will have been a full week since I arrived in London – and I’ve survived (hurray)! It seems like a good time to catch up on what I’ve been doing; it’s been quite a busy, intense week!

According to the pedometer on my phone, I’ve averaged 19,358 steps a day over the past seven days – 14.3km. It’s true that I had two particularly lengthy days, walking-wise, but even my most sedentary day still had me above 10,000 steps. Given I used to find 10,000 difficult, I’m feeling pretty pleased about that! A lot of that has, of course, been spent walking through the city. On Sunday, however, I joined a walking group and headed out to High Wycombe, which is about a 30 minute train ride out from Marylebone, and that ended up being a very, very long walking day indeed. It was worth it, though: the scenery was spectacular (so green!) and it was really lovely to meet some people, talk, and (of course) share a drink at the end.

I’ve now invested in some proper walking boots, as it has become quite plain to me that I really do need the extra support and comfort. My next step will be to change the insoles, as I’m getting quite a lot of arch pain – they need even more support. Amazon UK should deliver me those in the next couple of days, and hopefully that will help. In the short term, one of my little toes is almost more blister than skin (it was quite painful walking on heels earlier today for my first job interview).

Job interview, yes! I’ve been pleasantly surprised and pleased by the responses I’ve been getting to my applications since arriving – I had an interview this morning, and I have a few others scheduled throughout the week as well. I’m not in a huge rush to get a job– I do have savings to get me through a reasonable amount of time– but I’m pleased to be making an effort towards it all the same. Interestingly, I’ve found that a lot of organisations here assign additional tasks after offering you an interview: I had to give a 10 minute presentation for the one this morning, and for others I’ve been notified of various tests, additional questionnaires, and so on. It’s not a bad thing, and I can see how it can be useful, but it’s interesting; different.

Otherwise, I’ve been doing a lot of sightseeing. I’ve seen (by accident) the changing of the guard. I’ve been to the British Museum, and the Imperial War Museum. I’ve shopped (oops). I’ve walked through Hyde Park, and through Regent’s Park. I’ve found good coffee (and not so good coffee).

I’m liking the place I’m staying. The room is comfortable, and every day they come around and make the bed, carpet the floor, and so on. Every day, wherever my companion bear has ended up, I come home and find her sitting on my pillows again (I could choose to believe she puts herself back there, of course, but…). Breakfast involves cereal, yoghurt, fruit, toast, eggs, bacon, cold meats and cheeses, stewed tomatoes, baked beans, hash browns, orange juice, and sometimes croissants. I’m getting very used to having a proper cooked breakfast every morning. Dinner involves a soup course, a choice of three mains, various side dishes, and then a choice of desserts and cheeses. None of the food is fancy, but I’ve been enjoying it: I’ve had salmon, steak, pork ribs, lamb… and with three options, there’s always something I’m interested in.

I’ve not really made any friends or connections in the house, but I’m ok with that. It takes time, and I’m generally quite enjoying being on my own. I did really enjoy going out on that walk on Sunday, and getting to know a few people there – and then today, I had lunch with Kristen, whom I’ve known since my early days at University. For the moment, I’m feeling very comfortable with my own company. No doubt there will be lower points, but for now, I’m feeling pretty good.

I’m happy, here. I’m loving London, and all of the possibilities that are here for me. I’ve joined a dozen meetup groups, and am looking forward to going on more adventures with them; I’ve already booked to go on a weekend to Reims for champagne tasting and Christmas markets in November.

For now, I’m going to take it easy. I have a ticket to see ‘In The Heights’ tomorrow afternoon, and otherwise I’m going to try and rest my feet a little; I’m allowed.

Honestly, I feel pretty damn lucky at the moment. I wish I could go back in time six months and reassure my past self that things would get better; that amazing things were coming.

Happy week-versary, self!

Jackie Bear is very relieved to be out of the suitcase.

After I blogged yesterday, I ventured out again: I needed a sim card for my phone, and to vote at Australia House, and anything else was a bonus. Sticking to my ‘walk as much as you can’ plan, I decided that the 45-odd minute walk to Australia House was perfectly reasonable, and off I went. My meandering path eventually took me through a different bit of Hyde Park (and, okay, down Park Lane because Monopoly demanded it of me)… and eventually past Buckingham Palace where, quite by chance, I was just in time for the Changing of the Guard. I hadn’t intended to go that way– I saw the Guard twenty-five years ago– and I didn’t actually see much (the throngs of people! It was insane), but still. I was there.

I then made my way through St James’ Park, up towards Trafalgar Square, and then down the Embankment for a ways. By this time, my feet hurt. A lot. I am not… how shall I put it? In my previous life, I was not terribly active. I had a five minute walk to work; at most, I walked a couple of kms into the city, and that was it. I struggled to get 10,000 steps per day when I was doing Steptember last year: I literally only managed because I went out of my way to try and catch up. So. This walking? This is new. This is intense.

Nonetheless, I was undaunted. Catching the tube would be for wimps! I am trying to explore and get to know this city, and I am going to do that on foot (damn it).

Ow.

I did, however, eventually make it to Australia House, where I dutifully performed my democratic obligation, and cast my vote (no, you don’t get to ask how I voted). It was actually pretty cool, and definitely the prettiest polling place I’ve ever been in, all ornate floors and walls and arches and… well, you know. Old building stuff. I’m not homesick or anything (yet), but there is something comforting about being around one’s own countrymen, however briefly. Having said that, I very much did regret the lack of democracy sausage sizzle or cake stall, though I guess I can understand why one would not have either in an official diplomatic building (sigh).

I intended to catch the tube back. I even got on one! But… but. I got off again. My feet were hurting less, and it seemed like a bright idea.

It was not a bright idea.

I mean, don’t get me wrong: I enjoyed my walk back. I saw interesting buildings, and did not take any photos because I was distracted, but still. By the time I arrived back at my hotel, my feet really hurt, and so did my legs.

My new home

Not that I was done yet, oh no. I took a rest for a while, but then I went back out, because the one thing I hadn’t done yet was open a bank account, and as I had received on my way back an offer of a job interview, and that interview required me to provide proof of address, this seemed important. Unfortunately, that venture was a bust: the woman at the bank insisted that that bank would close my account if I listed a residential address that was not an actual flat or house, and so could not help me. ‘List a friend’s address’ she suggested, which… meh. It was frustrating, and I was tired enough and feeling alone enough that I shed a few tears, even; I did not agree with her assessment, and this bank was the only one I could find that would let me open an account without proof of address, and… frustrating. (I report back, now, that today I visited a different branch of the same bank and opened an account without incident.)

After that, I was just done. Done with the day, done with everything. I had an early dinner and was in bed before 8pm, which turns out not to have been a good idea, because I woke up at 12:30 convinced it must be morning. It was not morning. It was not even a little bit morning.

Happily, I did eventually go back to sleep, but it was restless and intermittent and not ideal. Still, it was enough to get me started today, when I promptly failed to learn my lesson from yesterday, and decided it was perfectly okay for me to walk from Paddington to the British Museum. Which… well, sure, the walk over was fine, but clearly I hadn’t taken into account the fact that I would want to, you know, walk around the museum as well. I am not always the brightest of people. I say this, because I then ended up walking back to Paddington. Oh, self.

But: the museum. I love the British museum. I only explored little bits of it (see previous paragraph re sore feet), but I know I’ll be back. There’s time!

The walk back was hard. By the end, I was not filling too great, and… well. My next step? I had to get my two suitcases from Paddington to Notting Hill. ‘Relatively easy!’ I thought, on the basis that I was not far from a tube station, and Notting Hill Gate was only two stops away. What I had failed to consider– and this is something I am going to have to remember in future– was that not all platforms have lifts, and sometimes there are multiple staircases to ascend and descend in order to reach the correct platform.

Yeah.

Twice, some very well-meaning and kind people offered to carry one of the suitcases for me as I descended or ascended a flight of stairs. Which was lovely of them, and very helpful. The rest of the time (and there were several times), I had to manage it myself, while people around me stared at the stupid tourist with too many belongings. Which was frustrating, because I am normally an incredibly light packer– if I can get away with carry-on baggage, I absolutely will. I’ve never had multiple suitcases for anything in my life, until now, and now… well. Those suitcases contain almost everything I own. Oh well. (Next time I move, here, I am going to suck it up and get a cab.)

I was, needless to say, exhausted and hot and sweaty and feeling gross by the time I arrived at my new home. I had a moment of horror when told my room was on the fourth floor, fearing I would have to lug my bags up the stairs; you can imagine, I think, my relief and glee, when I discovered that there was, in fact, a lift. My room here is small but comfortable: I have a private bathroom, a single bed, a desk, a bookcase, a TV, and a wardrobe. The room overlooks a little private garden in the back, and it’s all lovely. Having showered, and collapsed on the bed for an hour, I even unpacked: I have a home again!

The view from my window

A quick trip to the bank (to open my account), and to Tesco (to buy some necessities), and I’m basically all set up. This place has about 150 rooms, with people staying anywhere from a couple of weeks to upwards of a year, so I’m hoping it will be a good place to meet some people – perhaps even at dinner tonight (dinner being part of the room rate). For now, though, I am resting my aching feet and legs. I have blisters (not surprising), and my muscles are cramping, but it probably was worth it. I managed 20km on foot yesterday, and another 15 today, and that feels pretty good. Tomorrow? Tomorrow, I think I’ll take it a little easier.

I’m really glad to be in my medium-term accommodation now. I now have five weeks (more, if I need it) to get a job, and then find somewhere else to live. Being here, rather than in a hotel, makes me feel just that little bit more settled and ready to build a life. I’m feeling pretty positive about things (knowing I have an interview, and potentially more than one, next week helps – I’m not desperately rushing to get a job, but I like to see progress).

So! That’s where things are. So far so good.

Where once there was a home…

I moved out of my apartment today; I’m now staying in my parents’ house (though they themselves are not here – they’re off in Europe), and will for the next week or so. I know I’m not actually homeless, but this is the first time since 1996 that I’ve not really lived somewhere (that time it was because we were moving back to Sydney from Atlanta, and spent a couple of weeks staying with my grandparents in New Zealand). So it’s weird: I don’t have a place that I call home. Nothing is mine. I’m… camping out, more than living here.

More than that, too, it’s the saying goodbye to an apartment that I chose with someone; lived in, with someone. It doesn’t matter that it was also the place where our relationship ended– the point, for me, is that it was a place that had those memories, for better and for worse. I’ve largely ceased contact, and now I’m letting go of this, too. Fresh, clean slate. New beginnings. A life that is mine: paths chosen by me, all successes and failures owned by me, too.

In the meantime, I’m going to be sleeping in a bedroom that was once mine, in a house that was once mine. It’s a big house for one person; I’m used to being on my own, now, and I’m not lonely, but it feels strange to have this much space. It makes me much more aware of noises – and houses are full of noises.

It’s a relief, though, being out of the apartment. I feel so much more free, knowing I don’t have to worry about furniture or belongings anymore. Everything I need fits into two suitcases (er, mostly); everything else is just extra stuff, whether I’m storing it or not. I’ll be even happier once I’ve handed the keys to the apartment back in (hopefully Tuesday lunchtime, after the cleaners have been through)– one less thing to worry about.

In another week, I’ll also be unemployed, and that’s another new experience. The last time I was without a job I was nineteen, and had been let go from my part-time reception gig because I came down with glandular fever and wasn’t going to be able to work for a month or two. Back then, of course, I lived at home; it wasn’t a big deal. Now… well, it’s not a big deal either, in that I have money to support myself for a while, and some contract work to tide me over, and some leads on work and plenty of opportunities to generate more. But. But.

It’s not surprising, of course, that I’m feeling sentimental. I’m about to leave so much behind, and the farewells have already begun. It all feels right, but there’s still that fear of… what if it isn’t? What if instead of being the next positive step, it actually takes me out of this really good, happy place I’ve been in? Inevitable, I’m sure, to have doubts. And yet… not as many doubts as I thought I would. Which is good, right? If nothing else, I’m so glad to have made a decision, and now be in the process of turning that decision into reality. Whatever happens, I’ll have that knowledge: I did this.

For now, I am going to enjoy what is likely my last few days in this house that was once my home. After I leave it, next weekend, I’m unlikely to ever come back. Weird feeling.

Wanna buy my couch?

Having spent my twenties, and then the first couple of years of my thirties, too, in a relatively stable relationship, I have built up a lot of stuff. By the end of my twenties, I was buying Nice Things. That ratty couch we picked up off the side of the road? Gone, replaced by a beautiful leather couch that I bought in an actual store, brand new. Last year, I replaced our not-even-that-old TV with a bigger, crisper, shinier one. With a better speaker system.

And on it goes.

Now, suddenly, I’m trying to wrap up my life here. More than a decade of collecting things, and now I need to get rid of most of them. I’m not crying into my furniture and electricals as I give them on to other people or anything, but it’s still a weird feeling: I had my life all sorted out, and now I don’t. Now I’m (sort of) reverting back to the twenty-something mode of ‘Let’s take a working holiday somewhere on the other side of the world!’ and none of this stuff will help.

Even beyond the more philosophical side of it, I hate trying to get rid of my stuff. I sent around a list of things I had to sell at work, and then felt horrible when half a dozen people all desperately wanted my television. More than that, though, there’s having to work out what to do with the things that I don’t easily sell– and I think that will simply come down to ‘sell to a secondhand dealer even though they won’t give me very much because I have a deadline and enough else to stress about right now, thanks very much’.

Then there are the little things. The teapot and teacups I bought while on a family holiday one year; the wine glass and decanter set; my anthropomorphised silver coffee pot and milk jug; my pirate marionette from Prague. Sure, it can all go into boxes and my parents will store them for a few years until I figure out what I’m doing on a more permanent basis, but… will I still care about these things in two years? In five? They’re all just things. But they’re my things. My thoughts go around in circles.

My parents came over on the weekend and helped me pack up a lot of my stuff. There’s only really the kitchen, now, plus my clothes and what’s left in the bathroom. There’s still furniture to be gotten rid of– I’m still trying to sell it– but the bulk of everything is in progress. I’ll be glad when it’s just all done and I’m out of this apartment, as sad as I am to leave this place. Of course, I’ll also be glad when my visa finally comes through (my paperwork is all in Manila– why Manila? I have no idea– at the moment, and I’m waiting, waiting, waiting).

I also had to say goodbye to my parents this weekend. They leave for their next big trip on Thursday, and so I won’t see them again until… sometime. Next year, probably. That’s a very strange feeling for me, as someone who has always lived in the same city as her parents. I can go months without seeing them (or I used to), but this is different. I’m dreading the rest of the goodbyes. On the other hand, I’m glad not to do them at the airport. I have a 6am flight, so I will be staying in an airport hotel the night before, and there will be no one to see me off. It’s for the best; I hate goodbyes.

In three weeks, I will be on a plane. I’ll have already transited through Manila (it seems I have to go there, too – or at least, my flight takes me there), and on my way to London.

Strange.