My big picture

As much as I try to keep my eyes open and really see what's around me here, I've lived in Northwest London long enough now that some of the things that wowed me at first are simply starting to look familiar. Yes, it's a beautiful area. Yes, there are many things about the architecture and the signage and the neighborhood itself that are quaintly and uniquely European. I love to admire and appreciate those sights. But I walk these streets pretty darn regularly, and it's hard to really see those things day after day after day. Over time, the sections of sidewalk where I have to maneuver the stroller carefully have become more notable to me than the stately Victorian houses or the cute little shops that line those sidewalks. Figuring out what to serve for dinner consumes enough of my attention that the beautiful selection of fruits and vegetables at my neighborhood produce stand is a domestic challenge as much as it is a sight to behold. The streets are lovely, to be sure, but making sure my kids don't charge into them without holding my hand takes precedence over gazing at them most days.

There is one exception. One street which I walk down regularly never, ever fails to capture my attention. There are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of cobblestone streets lined with mews houses in London, and quite a few probably look just like this one. But this one is part of my daily routine, a path I tread regularly, and for whatever reason, it has captivated me. I have never once walked down this street without pausing to admire it, never been able to make it to the next intersection without pinching myself in disbelief that I live here. This street is my perfect mental image of picture postcard Europe. Had I walked down it once on a vacation, I know that I would have loved the view and I might even have taken a photograph for the album. "Remember that pretty cobblestone street we saw in London?" But this isn't a one-shot sight for me. I've had the pleasure of walking down that road again and again, day after day after week after month. And somewhere along the way, stopping to admire the sweeping view, the tiny houses, and the picturesque doorways has become my reminder to savor this experience, the big picture that puts my trivial daily complaints and concerns into perspective.

Our flat has become home by now, our surroundings familiar. I've started to say things like "would you prefer to go to Barcelona or Amsterdam next month" without laughing out loud at the sheer audacity of the fact that such options are even available to us. People aren't even asking me how we're getting on here any more; they just seem to presume that we've settled in, and quite frankly, they're right. I consider myself American and I look forward to living there again soon, but 6 months into our expat experience, I'm beginning to make a home for myself here in London even if it will never be Home with a capital H. Our day-to-day lives don't seen so exciting or adventurous or exotic any more; for now, this is just life, with all the mundane good and bad that regular life entails. Good, healthy changes, all of them. But that one street? It still gets me every time. And I hope that's one thing that never changes for me here.