The Lost Chapter to Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love

Chapter 27.5 – My Time in London:

I overheard a British couple talking about the Christmas holidays in London. They spoke of decorating their tree and hauling out their winter coats when they got home. Huddling over a cappuccino, I sat in a café pulling my cotton sweater tighter, wishing I actually needed a coat in this mild Roman winter. When I heard their plans, I was overtaken by nostalgia and then by mean-spirited resentment. Why do these people get to have the comfort and joy of a Dickens Christmas when all I’ve got is the warmth of the golden sunlight on Saint Peters Dome?

Now, to the naïve observer it might seem that I’m acting quite spoiled. And complaining about the luxuries of Italy is, I admit, a kind of selfish nonsense. Why would I leave sparkling Prosecco and always fresh tomatoes? How could I possibly reject the guaranteed sunsets over THE Eternal City?

Two reasons.

First, I needed to travel. The barista handed me my cappuccino, no sugar, without my asking. But even more than that, I longed for a season that announced itself with complete certainty. I longed for the first frost, the bustle in the streets as people head for their warm homes, the afternoon dusk. I longed for Christmas, and not just the day of December 25th. Christmas for me has always been about family, the one you’re born into and the one you make. This year will be different, but the life I used to live could never just disappear. I needed to be with someone who knew me before my marriage and the little family it contained was shattered.   

I grew up on a Christmas tree farm in Connecticut, so, though I didn’t miss New York at all, I missed the farm. Each year we skipped fall and rushed to winter. By November, my dad and I would already be selling homegrown trees to the avid Christmas-lovers (like myself) who started the celebration before Christmas was even in season. Fir, pine, spruce. Balsam fir. Scotch pine. White spruce. We had it all. Christmas music played nonstop from October onwards and the damp smell of mittens and socks drying on the radiator was richer to me than any rose garden in Italy.  

My childhood friend Kate moved from New York to London about the same time I came to Rome. She was working with Barclays Bank when her job picked her up and moved her to London. It was good timing though — her boyfriend of four years had just broken up with her, and she almost couldn’t stand living in New York any longer. Everything reminded her of him — the chocolate chip cookies from Levain Bakery, the street art that filled the cement sidewalks, the used Met museum tickets she’d find in the pockets of her coats. I’m glad he’s gone though — I never really liked him, oops.

I would call her from the famous broken payphone on Via Corso. Every international student in Rome knew that all you needed was a one-euro coin to call home for a time limited only by the other students in line behind you. After seeing people in line day after day, I had to ask what they were waiting for. Whenever I called Kate, I felt only slightly guilty that I wasn’t calling my mother, like everyone else in the line. We exchanged stories about her life in London and mine in Rome. She exploded about her undiscovered love for biking, found through the coffee shop, GIRO. Coffee and biking? Those two didn’t sound like the best couple, but I went along with her. Coffee, Cycle, Culture is GIRO’s slogan, and apparently her own slogan, too.

“Now remember Elizabeth: Coffee! Cycle! Culture!” she’d say every time before hanging up the phone. She had definitely moved on from her failed relationship to an enticing affair with the city, marveling, “How can a city have SO many parks? Central Park seems SMALL compared to how many there are in London!” Hyde Park, Hampstead Heath, Holland Park, Primrose Hill, Regents Park, the list goes on. Meanwhile, I spat back my own adventures. I told her about how I had taken a vespa tour and plan on never doing it again. Or I would describe my favorite markets, like Campo de’ Fiori.

“I hop from stall to stall, sampling the olive oil until I’ve eaten more than enough oil-drowned bread than my body could ever need,” I almost drool just telling her about the smoky, earthy, fruity, nutty, liquid gold. The more we talked, the more we realized how local we had become. I biked over London Bridge on my way to work, she’d say. I ate a panini and drank a Peroni on a bank of the Tiber, I’d say.

“You know London is world-renowned for Christmas, right? It’s right up there with New York City.” She said in thrilling excitement over the phone. “How ‘bout you come here for Christmas?”

Squishing the plastic phone to my ear with my shoulder and throwing my hands in the air, I blurted, “YES!”

“Elizabeth, I’ve got it. Imagine this: You and me. Champagne. Primrose Hill.”

So off I went. Yesterday morning I left Rome in bright sunshine and landed in London under a cold grey sky. I didn’t even have a plane ticket or a plan until I stood in front of the Fiumicino Airport holding a carry-on bag with the few warm clothes I still had. A 200 euro-one way Alitalia ticket and a three-hour flight later, I’m there. I instantly love London. Historic, eclectic, happening, hectic, no-holds-barred London. A whirling, chock-a-block time machine spanning the past and present. A manicured garden laid over an ancient Roman city, with all the pride of a World War II survivor and an avant-garde street artist. This is a city that gave the world Shakespeare and the Beatles. The city is clad with limestone palaces and red brick houses with leaky sash windows and steep slate roofs. There is not a street in London without a crooked turn changing randomly from two-way to one-way. Nor is there a building in this city that isn’t older than a century, each one joined, leaning on each other like drunks at a pub. Horse guards parade down Pall Mall with hardly a second glance from the locals. In long, sharp, velvet, red tunics and plumed, golden helmets, they sit astride their enormous thoroughbreds like monuments to the empire — just a bit more intimidating than American mall cops on their Segways.

As in most major cities in the world, London is home to the spaghetti tangle of a subway system, the Tube. But, the Tube is the oldest underground railroad in the world. When I say underground and tangled, I mean 220 feet deep and 250 miles long. That’s a lot of spaghetti. London’s Tube carriages are a microcosm of the world. Where else would you see a saffron-robed Hindu monk next to a miter-wearing Greek orthodox priest next to a knickerbocker-donned British school child next to a Burberry-wrapped Kate Middleton look-a-like? Because she’d be at work when I arrived, Kate told me to take the Tube from the airport rather than getting a taxi — way cheaper, way faster, way more exciting. In less than an hour you can take the Piccadilly line from Heathrow Airport to the center of London, which is exactly what I did to get to Kate’s house in Notting Hill.

Kate had warned me that she’d have to work until Christmas Eve, but I didn’t mind. I was excited to explore London, a place where I could be completely anonymous again, lost in the crowd. As I sat perched on the Tube’s moquette seats, I studied the map, hopped from conversation to conversation, watched the stations flash by, listened to the hum of the wheels on the track. Oh, it was such a simple yet enthralling and essential moment in my life. No one knew each other, and no one cared to know each other either (and I mean that in the nicest way possible). I loved every second of it. There’s something about public transportation, and especially the Tube, that is unlike any other place. So many completely different people are together in this carriage with the same goal of travelling to some destination. The person across from me, probably on his way to work, wore an ironed, grey suit with his hair combed back and a brief case sitting on his lap. Blue and orange Nike sneakers peeked out from under the hem of his pants. Where does he work? Is he married? Will he change into work shoes, or does he always wear those Nikes with his suits? That’s the magic of the Tube: nameless faces with unknown backgrounds sharing a moment together. Mr. I Wear Suits with Blue Sneakers didn’t know anything about my past life, my ex-husband, my divorce. He knew nothing. But there we were, sitting only feet away from each other, enjoying the ride.

While Kate worked during the day, I toured London on my own. She pressed an oyster card, the British public transport travel card, into my hand and whispered, almost like she was telling me a secret, “The number 19 bus. Sit on the top deck; it’s the best way to see the true guts of the city.” So I headed out into London’s drizzle to catch the iconic, red double-decker. Even in the short walk from my hotel, my black TOMS were pudding. I noticed something as I waited in line for the bus — Londoners would queue politely if it was the apocalypse and they were waiting for the last bus to safety. Here they were, hiding under their umbrellas until the bus pulled up, letting out a pneumatic hiss. People drew their umbrellas closed, revealing snappy suits and dresses paired with heels. Before stepping on board, each person shook off the raindrops that pooled in the creases of the furled umbrella. They were so unbothered by the rain. Meanwhile, a river of the little mascara I was wearing was dripping down my cheeks, a veritable black River Thames of my own resignation to the rain.

As the riders filed onto the red double-decker, they tapped their oyster cards on the card reader. Beep, beep, beep, beep, like a grocery store checkout line, occasionally interrupted by a baabum, the card without enough money. I followed their lead, becoming a true Londoner. After climbing the sticky, coffee stained, narrow, twisting, tiny, steep stairs, I plonked down in the front seat. Kate was right — the view was incredible. And London totally got Christmas. Wreaths hung from every door. Baskets of red and white clematis scaled the lampposts. Christmas lights adorned the faces of every single building. The extravagancy of the lights seemed to match the amount of customers flowing into the store. Harrods immediately won in this competition of best decorated. I’ve never seen a more beautifully illuminated building in my whole life. Thousands of tiny golden bulbs outlined every window, and ornamented Christmas trees stood on top of each marquee. The entire building was a glowing masterpiece. I must’ve been sick of the ruins because, oh man, when I saw Harrods, I almost melted into a puddle of my own happiness.

A word about the holidays. Christmas is supposed to be a time when you’re surrounded by family and friends. And as happy as I was in London, I spent a whole lot of time alone. So no, it wasn’t my traditional Christmas. In my real life I would’ve watched classic movies like It’s a Wonderful Life and A Christmas Story at least three times by now. I would’ve been sitting by the fire with my (now) ex-husband. I would’ve had my parents over to decorate the tree. My real-life days, in a sense, are no longer my real-life days, because this is my real life now. I realized, and am still realizing as I write this, that my trip to London was exactly what I needed in that time of my life. On Christmas Eve, Kate and I did just what she told me we would during our phone call: The two of us. Champagne. Primrose Hill.

Bundled in heavy winter coats, pom-pommed hats, and wooly mittens, Kate and I walked through the empty London streets to the Tube. Even the Tube had quieted down — the carriages weren’t filled to the brim with people and the whispers and once muffled conversations had become clear and distinguishable. We hopped off the Tube at the Camden Town stop, about a 15-minute walk from Primrose Hill. The usually buzzing Camden market seemed to be asleep. The Christmas lights hanging from shop to shop were still lit, but the stores themselves were closed for the holiday. Families enjoyed this cold night inside their homes, but Kate and I frolicked through the vacant streets like kids running to the tree on Christmas morning. Thankfully, a few shops stayed open on Christmas Eve; our night couldn’t be complete without a Christmas dinner.

“You find some snacks, I’ll find the champagne,” ordered Kate. I pulled the door open, meeting wave of warm air. A man sat reading the newspaper behind the cashier. He was a classic Brit, no doubt about it, because the minute I walked in, he nodded his Victorian England, plaid, Oliver Twist cap and said in the most delicious British accent, “Good evening, love.” Kate turned right to get the champagne, and I turned left to find a sufficient Christmas Eve meal.    

“Two Cornish pay-stees please!” I asked, handing him a five-pound note. I actually had no idea what they were, but they seemed like a festive, yummy pastry, perfect for Christmas. He picked two plump Cornish pasteys from the heated display case, put them in a paper bag, and handed me the treats, winking and adding, “By the way, it’s Cornish paa-stee. Happy Christmas.”

Kate and I trekked up the mountainous Primrose Hill. We were the only ones in the park that Christmas Eve. While families ate roasted turkey and Yorkshire puddings at the dinner table with their family, popping crackers and listening to Christmas music, Kate and I gazed at the skyline of London, sipping Champagne out of the bottle and munching on the Cornish pasteys. The silence of the park was drowned out by our own laughter once we realized Cornish pasteys, in fact, have meat and vegetables inside them. I really swore they were dessert pastries.   

The view from the top was magnificent. Peeking out from behind the trees was London’s skyline. Miniscule lights sparkled in every window and every now and then, an airplane would dance across the sky. Oh, what an exquisite Christmas Eve. It was real, this love I was feeling. During my time in London, I lost myself in crowds of people and found myself when I was alone. It felt good to be anonymous in places that didn’t need any explanation of who I was. And I was pleasantly reminded that my past doesn’t define me, but it will always be a part of me. I haven’t been this happy, and this me, for a long time.

Thank you Kate. I love London.