I’m back in my Paddington hotel now, fresh from a work meeting that has left me with the rarest of corporate travel luxuries: unscheduled time.
There’s something wonderfully liberating about being alone in a foreign country. It’s the only time I can wander into those spots that would otherwise be vetoed by family members who, for reasons beyond my comprehension, don’t find museums featuring historical androgynous depictions of Guanyin fascinating.
The entire day revolved around a 2pm meeting—that cruel, middle-of-the-day scheduling equivalent to having a dental appointment during lunch. It effectively carves your day into two useless halves, like trying to make a sandwich with bread too small for the filling. Adding to this temporal inconvenience, London has fully embraced its own stereotype—bitterly cold, perpetually damp, and cloaked in an atmosphere so melancholic that even the grey buildings seem to be suffering from seasonal depression.
After gym and breakfast this morning, I braved a muddy Hyde Park on a mission to Kensington High Street, all because of a critical packing error. I had brought a Uniqlo Airism tank top– utterly useless against the British winter– and was now forced to shop for a thick long-sleeve shirt. Predictably, the trek left my sneakers and jeans splattered in mud.
What I hadn’t anticipated was how Hyde Park would ambush me with honeymoon memories. Every familiar landmark acted like a sentimental landmine, detonating flashbacks. I remembered our morning strolls, the inviting aroma of coffee from nearby cafés, and– almost as if struck by lightning– realized that my hotel was mere meters from where Cheryl and I honeymooned.
Back then, it was just the two of us– carefree travellers whose biggest concerns were which sights to see and which restaurant to try next.
More than a decade later, those two wanderers have somehow managed to produce two daughters who, despite being halfway across the world, maintain their parental manipulation skills with impressive efficiency. Throughout the day, my phone has pinged with iPad time extension requests– proof that digital parenting transcends continents.
There’s something oddly grounding about these little interruptions. The simple act of approving extra time for Matholia or Google Classroom connects me to my evolved existence– one that’s messier, louder, and infinitely more anchored than my former life.
It’s either this deep appreciation for family making me sentimental, or I’ve been psychologically brainwashed by Apple’s latest holiday ad—one of those emotional masterpieces that somehow makes me teary-eyed about products I already own.
Either way, here I am, sitting in this quiet hotel room– simultaneously savouring my solitude and missing the chaos.