Wistful

It has been thirty years since I have been to London. My father lived there three years in the late 70s, early 80s and I would go visit whenever I could.

He lived in on the third floor of a four storey flat on Upper Devonshire Place (purple dot). From the bedroom and bathroom, one could see and hear Saint Marylebone Church... not that we ever went there, oddly. He rented the flat from the father of a colleague from work and it was all he needed: a front living room/kitchen that looked out on Upper Devonshire Place, a front hallway that led out to the stairs, and then said bedroom and bath. When I would visit, I would sleep on an inflatable mattress in the living room. He and I went out the summer he moved over there and purchased a receiver and turntable so he could listen to his music.

I no longer remember exactly how far down the street the flat was (red dot) other than it was about halfway and a long walk from the Regents Park tube station when arriving with a suitcase. While he would go off to work, I would walk all over London, miles in a day. After my first spring break there, I had done so much walking that I ended up with tendonitis in my foot.

So, to hear all the fuss about the royal wedding in a matter of just over an hour, I am wistful because I have very fond memories of my summers and March breaks in London. There are so many other places to travel that I have not gotten back there since 1981 and I wonder if I ever will. Besides, without my pied-à-terre, it won't be the same.