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The London Stories: How to leave London (20 of 20)

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“I can’t believe you are leaving London. There’s no way.” Most of my friends and online friends were a bit shocked when I announced that I will be relocating. And yet, I had already thought about it at least three times before.

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

Reading my 20 stories it might sound like I’ve been dedicated to London non stop from day 1 and even though that’s generally true, I had had my doubts here and there too .

The first time I thought of leaving London was when I was in a super serious relationship with a talented Greek boy. “Have you ever thought that we are working hard here and we may go back to Greece one day and think we should have returned sooner to build something?” I said, all of my 26 year old stupidity on display.  

I am 42 now and I would *never* think that way about Greece. But I was young and in love and was wondering if we could build a life together not just in London. It turned out that we couldn’t build a life together anywhere so I m’ grateful to the boy who was adamant that he was still too young and needed the experience abroad.

The second time was around the same age (maybe a couple of years later) when I felt that politically Greece might be changing. This, I found out over the years, is a conviction of young people abroad from time to time. Going back “to contribute” is a noble quest but whether you’ve actually been successful or whether things have actually changed are more difficult things to determine. I mean, how the hell do you look back and say “I wasted my time”? You don’t. Which is why I am absolutely certain that I’m happy I never went back and why others might tell you the exact opposite. Cause to me, Greece is not changing – or at least is not changing enough for me to believe that I could make a meaningful contribution or that I’m not wasting my life.

On discussing this with a political party appointee a while back he insisted that we should go back to Greece not because it’s better but because it’s our homeland. While I respect this point of view I also find it utterly foreign to me. The only homeland is myself and my people. Everything else – to me – is a sentimental trap. I don’t think I can adequately describe how freeing that is. Fundamentally, this is *exactly* how I can leave London – even though it’s been home for 20 years.

The last time I thought about leaving London I was about 34, had just exited the abusing relationship I’ve mentioned already and felt… stuck. The job was maddening and not too exciting, some friendships were fleeting, the money terrible, the men worse. I thought I needed a change. Why had I been so stuck in London, what was stopping me from traveling, going to a new city, getting to know a new place? I decided it was just a fluke and so I started looking for jobs elsewhere. Fun fact, I interviewed for a job at Nord Stream which thankfully I didn’t get.

That year, I went to Edinburgh and stayed at an Airbnb. I was so taken aback by this incredible concept and enjoyed my stay so much that I decided I needed to work for that company. When a policy position was announced in August of the same year, my CV must have been the first one through the door. Amazingly, inconceivably, after a looong process, I got the job. I found a workplace and I also found my tribe.

Working at Airbnb opened to door to tech and a global community of like minded people. I don’t work at Airbnb anymore but I’m incredibly proud of that company, its people and its community. Nothing was out of bounds, no idea dismissed. People I worked with every day were enthusiastic, incredibly smart and came from all around the world. Finally, FINALLY, I was not the odd one out. I was not the exception. I was part of an office where multiple languages were spoken, life experiences were respected and something meaningful was happening. I didn’t even have to go to the pub every Friday and drink myself to oblivion. We can argue about the benefits and drawbacks of companies like Airbnb all day but nothing will diminish my love for the company and what it did for me.

My job at Airbnb demanded travel and lots of it. I was averaging three trips a month. Play a very small violin for me, obviously, as I was being paid to go to incredible destinations and work hard with interesting people. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun at work nor felt so challenged. It consumed all of my energy – I stopped blogging and creating online, the job was hard but utterly satisfying. And it also did this: I was so rarely in London that I started rediscovering its wonders. Let’s be honest through, it was also an issue of money. Getting a great job that pays better does expand your ability to do things in an interesting city.

That’s the time when I discovered the most interesting restaurants and I finally managed to go to a Royal Opera House performance sitting somewhere other than up at the gods. The friends who showed understanding and patience with my frequent absences I’m friends with still today. I would meet them for a drink in a new bar, we would find a funny restaurant, we would go for a burger to a new cinema club. And I also made friends at Airbnb – despite my general rule of no friendships at work. Incredible, talented people, not constrained by geography and countries. Most had travelled, changed places, sometimes careers, lived some sort of adventure. It was exhilarating, it was invigorating.

Yes, the job did lead me to rediscover and fall in love with London again. And yet, in a strange way, it also led to my decision to leave London.

Tech is a peculiar beast. If you have the propensity (I do) it can train you to think outside what you thought was achievable. Have a crazy idea and make it work? Done that. Go to a country to pass a law everyone (even you) thought was impossible! Was there for that too. Witness an idea grow and a community thrive? It happened. Leave everything and go to a new country for a job? WHY THE HELL NOT?

As the time eventually came to start interviewing inside and outside Airbnb my world was different. It was post-pandemic and I had also become a parent. Having the  Lord of Gondolin, Bane of Gothmog, mighty beater of his headboard, conqueror of the slide, aka our child join our family made a HUGE difference to how I make decisions about my life and my work. I am incredibly more ambitious now – for example – which I understand is not exactly what society expects of me. But you know, society can suck it.

I started interviewing in the summer of 2021 – when the job market exploded after a two year period of tumbleweed. Out of the five jobs I interviewed for, only one was based in London. When they were asking me “would you” my answer was “in a heartbeat”.

Funny story, one recruiter actually asked me to discuss a potential relocation with my husband. It’s the biggest red flag I’ve ever seen during interview time with any company – thank fuck I dodged that bullet. Anyhow.

I don’t think our leaving London actually sank in until the movers were done and I did one last round of the empty rooms of our house. My husband bought that house years ago, it’s where we had our wedding (really, in the garden) and where Philip joined us. But bricks are bricks and people are people. I was taking the most important people with me after all.

Did the destination matter? Not really. I was prepared to leave London regardless of the destination, the job being a bigger priority. Is there really a way to leave London? I doubt it. How can you say never to a place that was home for so long? I wouldn’t say never even for Greece and that’s definitely not in any plans I have or could ever imaging myself having.

That last weekend we booked a nice hotel in central London and did the tourist thing. We walked around Hyde Park, we went to a couple of museums, we had a lovely meal together. This is going to be it from now on, that’s how Philip will get to know this city in the foreseeable future – with a vague notion that he carries the passport but with no real attachment to the place. I think I prefer that.

I spent too many years of my life sentimentally attached to places when really, they don’t count and that’s been proven to me again and again. I count, first and foremost, being healthy, doing meaningful things, finding happy moments. And then my people. The knight in well travelled armor, the boy, my sister, a few friends.

I wanted to end this post by saying that the world is changing. We are more mobile than ever – we can do our jobs from anywhere. That boundaries are disappearing. That opportunities are global. As I watch the invasion of Ukraine I know that the world is changing but not exactly in the way I imagined. The world is becoming different, small mindedness thrives but also greatness, humanity, connection. It feels like there is no certainty anymore, no guarantees.

I remember when I was a teenager and I believed that by a certain age I will have things figured out. I will have a job, a family, be settled, know where the sun comes up and where it goes down. I discovered over the years that my main driver is avoiding exactly that.

I was 22 when I left Greece, I had a job, a car, a boyfriend. I assumed that in about 10 years I’d have a different job, a bigger car, a better boyfriend.

I was 42 when I left London. I had a job, a car, a husband and a child. I assumed that in about 10 years I’d have a similar job, I’d go to similar places and I’d probably look forward to sending Philip to university and spending some alone time with Antonis. It’s a lovely life as I describe it, calm, joyous, desirable. Just… you know… not desirable for all.

And so I said the big yes and thank all the gods of Olympus that I married the man I married (cause it was touch and go there for a while) and we got on that plane. Will we like it? Will we stay? Will Iron Maiden ever perform here? Will we manage to learn Arabic? Will we bend some things to our will and will we accept some others? Will we find a community, will we thrive, learn, grow?

Who the hell knows, but honestly, finding these things out is half the joy of moving to a new place.

Wish us luck.

And London. See you soon my love.

———————————-

My #20LondonStories

  1. Grexit/ Brexit 
  2. The way to anyone’s heart is through the stomach
  3. The night bus 
  4. Words save our lives… sometimes 
  5. The rest is noise 
  6. How not to bite your nails in the Officials’ Box 
  7. Always have a sister 
  8. Greek London 
  9. This green and pleasant land 
  10. The bridge of aspiration 
  11. The knight in well travelled armor 
  12. Carpets in the toilet and other adventures in housing
  13. Moments in Art 
  14. The NHS hunger games 
  15. In nocte consilium
  16. The friends we found, the friends we lost
  17. Blogging tips for beginners 
  18. Lord of Gondolin, Bane of Gothmog, mighty beater of his headboard, conqueror of the slide, aka our child
  19. γνῶθι σεαυτόν
  20. How to leave London
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The London Years: γνῶθι σεαυτόν (19 of 20)

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Two things have tended to save my sanity over the years. First, writing. I think I’ve covered that sufficiently in these blog posts. Second, how over the top self analytical I am. I can tell you exactly how things hit, I can create a narrative about how things feel and why they are the way they are and I can come out the other end with a clear decision in my head without any second thoughts.

This, I discovered, is easier when you are younger.

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

I came to London when I was 22 with a self confidence that impresses even me now. I credit my mother’s Jedi mind tricks but there must have been something in my core too because I attacked life in London with a determination that knew no equal. But this is no Steve Jobs story. I was never obsessive, I was never a business school weirdo talking to you about goals, getting up at five and journaling. I just instinctively knew that everything I was doing took A LOT out of me and I expected to get A LOT in return.

I worked as hard as I could and paid attention. I did my studying part time, I changed jobs when I could, I did voluntary and freelance work to make sure I could build up my CV to break into tech. I endured a couple of shit jobs, I knew enough to leave comfortable but dead end jobs with lovely colleagues, I kept my mouth shut when I was bullied – which I don’t regret. I eventually got into tech and finally found my tribe – working in the multinational environment I had dreamed of, doing stuff I was proud of, meeting incredible people.

London is fantastic if you want to work hard. It’s not just about the work culture of an advanced economy – even though that’s invaluable for those of us coming from more… challenging backgrounds. It’s mainly about the sheer size. Not that it’s not an old boys club or that the rich kids don’t get a leg up. They do. I could never afford being an unpaid intern for example so some things took me years when they’ve taken others months. But the city is also incredibly big and has more opportunities and I was sufficiently privileged to find a way, not to mention LUCKY.

People who work hard always seem to credit the sweat of their brow and their genius for their achievements but let me tell you, London taught me otherwise. There are hundreds of thousands of talented people here who work hard, same as I do. I know, I’ve met some of them. Some were also lucky. Some, were not. Some faced a lot more challenges than I did because of their skin colour or their story or their sexual orientation. Because yes, London is incredibly liberal compared to other places but discrimination still exists. So you know, I count my blessings.

Because let me tell you, as together I’ve been in my work and my studies, I’ve also been a moving disaster zone when it comes to my personal life. For the life of me, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as prone to dramatic personal relationship arcs as me. I wish I could tell you I grew out of that crap but actually I don’t think people change that much. What happened was that I learned to manage.

London is a good and a bad place to be in when you are an emotional mess. I could not get out in the middle of the night, drive to a favourite spot and just wait for daybreak. There were practical considerations – no car for one. So, you know, doesn’t matter how much you’d like to gaze at the stars all night crying cause next morning you gotta get up early to catch the tube so eventually you have to give up.

But the city did give me something far more valuable. It enriched my inner life so significantly that I build up my core defences a lot more. Nostalgia hitting hard? That’s fine, I have tickets to the Opera where I can legitimately cry my eyes out and be introspective for an evening. Boyfriend being a dick? That’s fine, I’m going to watch Ibsen today. (By the way Ibsen is the most certain route to realising that there’s worse out there because in Ibsen’s plays it’s always the fucking worst that’s happening.) Feeling lonely? Who cares, I’m just starting a new job. Messed up a relationship? Damn it, at least my research is going well.

The point is that in London I could KEEP MOVING.

Perpetual movement appeals to me. There’s always another book to read, another game to play, another job to go to, another restaurant to try. And London is paradise to people like me because things happen all the time and all communities are big. Not to mention transitory. So you do lose people but you also get to meet new people – as long as you accept some of the London peculiarities.

Some people helped me and some hindered me. In the main we allow people to affect us in certain ways. The only exception to that rule are abusers, scum of the earth who prey on others. And while I met one of those and he tried hard to control me, I eventually showed him the finger. Took me a while to feel safe again but the city once more came to my rescue. My housemates, my job, the art, the new friends. I thrived and sometimes that’s all you need. It’s not even revenge because what revenge would ever be sufficient or even necessary against repugnant dicks? I reclaimed my spaces and my favourite spots, I stopped socialising with unsupportive mates and moved on.

And then I fell into a sort of rhythm. I travelled a lot for work, I found Antonis, I knew what I liked and could do it. The city became a bit of a lovely playground. New places opened up and I discovered new things. That could have been the point to stop but no, this girl had to KEEP MOVING. And that’s when I got pregnant.

Motherhood is a psychological bomb that – at my age – you have created and set yourself. There is no claiming that societal pressure made me do it. There is no claiming that I was too young and didn’t know what I was doing. I did it myself and I can tell you that it took me a couple of years to have actual fun with the kid and to be able to say to myself “ah, this is the good stuff, right, I had no idea”.

But again, the city helped me and it did so in practical terms (because patronising misogyny especially when you become a mother is rife the world over). There were play groups, there were parks, my mother and my step dad could rent a flat and have health insurance and be here to help us out. There were high chairs in every restaurant, there were ways to travel with the kid, loads of information online to help you prepare.

I was also – again – lucky. The way I wanted to work as a mother was possible and I was working for someone who did not question me. My parents were able to come and help us out. And Antonis turned out to be a full time, dedicated and complete father – which as I’ve mentioned, you don’t actually know before you have the kid.

I did have a wobble after I had Philip. It was the first time in my life I could not make a decision. I would get up in the morning, try to talk to myself about myself and I’d come up against specific questions I could not answer. That’s enraging to someone like me. I called some friends – asked them about their choices. I read a couple of books. I even spoke to a therapist, that’s how monumental I found my inability to take a clear and absolute decision. And then, I let it go… I just… somehow made my peace with that part of me that only the kid revealed to me and that’s also progress.

You might expect this post to say that I’ve mellowed. That over my 20 years in London I’ve had my fill of the wonder of the city and I yearn to settle down with my wonderful husband and adorable child. That I look back at the determined little know it all I was and smile beatifically. That London is now a hectic place I visit here and there. That I stopped running around so much and discovered the magic of a quiet afternoon at home, my child signing harmonies with himself in the background.

Don’t make me laugh.

I think that’s my biggest revelation about myself. There is no mellowing. That’s what terrified me after having Philip and I couldn’t make a decision. Was that it? Had I lost the woman I was? No danger of that here mate. There is no changing the passion and the drama. There is no changing how I manage my life and my relationships, there can be no movie-like change of heart. There is growth, yes, there is maturity. There is knowledge of ways to manage the crazy, but finally, fucking finally, I absolutely love the crazy.

The crazy is why this city did not beat me, how I rode it’s waves, how I found the little corners where I could breathe. I did not get here despite the crazy, I got here because of the crazy.

I can’t fucking wait to get back here on holiday, put on my dr. Martens and take the kid out to a concert in Camden. I can’t fucking wait to take him to the ballet the next day. I need no permission and I never did because this place SHIELDED me and I got to be me, completely, irrevocably, sometimes apologetically (cause we all need to do that from time to time) but actually me.

How the fuck can I ever repay that debt?

———————————-

My #20LondonStories

  1. Grexit/ Brexit 
  2. The way to anyone’s heart is through the stomach
  3. The night bus 
  4. Words save our lives… sometimes 
  5. The rest is noise 
  6. How not to bite your nails in the Officials’ Box 
  7. Always have a sister 
  8. Greek London 
  9. This green and pleasant land 
  10. The bridge of aspiration 
  11. The knight in well travelled armor 
  12. Carpets in the toilet and other adventures in housing
  13. Moments in Art 
  14. The NHS hunger games 
  15. In nocte consilium
  16. The friends we found, the friends we lost
  17. Blogging tips for beginners 
  18. Lord of Gondolin, Bane of Gothmog, mighty beater of his headboard, conqueror of the slide, aka our child
  19. γνῶθι σεαυτόν
  20. How to leave London

All the rest

The London Years: Lord of Gondolin, Bane of Gothmog, mighty beater of his headboard, conqueror of the slide, aka our child (18 of 20)

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After 20 years in London I had managed to get tickets for the Christmas lights event at Kew Gardens. I accepted that I would mess up the kid’s bedtime but since we were leaving London I resigned to having him nagging me throughout or just sleeping in his buggy. He spent the whole three hours walking around (he was 2 years and 3 months old), pointing at things, saying “wooooooooooooooowwwwwwwww, look mommy” and having a whale of a time. It was the first time we had actual fun together – i.e. not just him having fun and me helping. I was looking at him toddling around, waving at people and wanting to touch the lights, with such a sense of wonder and all I could think of was how proud I was that he is an enthusiastic Londoner, just like me. This is definitely not what parenting feels like most times but I had to break it to you gently.

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

This is the best description I can give you of how having a child feels to me. When I was pregnant I had more amniotic fluid than expected. This can be a number of things, some treatable – like gestational diabetes – some worrying – like serious foetal abnormalities. I had done a number of tests and the only thing left would be to risk an amniocentesis. I sat at my mum’s kitchen table, paralysed with fear, unable to make a rational decision cause nobody can guarantee you that’s a risk you should or should not take. I made the best choice I could make, completely unable to say if I had taken the right decision and hoped that it would all work out in the end. Basically, that’s how parenting feels like to me most of the time. You try to study and ask the specialists, you think about things seriously but ultimately nobody can tell you how to do it and you have to do the best you can, hoping that it will all work out in the end.

Before the spawn, I knew I wanted children theoretically and I also suspected that it was a good thing I didn’t have them earlier. This is because I was both not ready and with completely unsuitable partners (most lovely people and suitable generally, just not the right match). Upon reaching 38 I also surmised that the famed clock just doesn’t tick for all of us and decided to honour the vague notion that I wanted children, especially since I had found the right partner.

The idea of the right partner is also a bit of a joke because nobody knows what sort of parent they will become until they get the actual child – at which point there are no backsies. So I chose a life partner having no idea what parent either of us would become and that could have gone horribly wrong but somehow it worked. It’s a mystery to me how humanity has survived considering that parenthood is sucha gotcha moment. I digress.

Being pregnant in London was a breeze. I had my little tube pin and people gave up their seats – and when they didn’t I was old enough and not British enough to ask them to do so. My workplace was flexible and so I worked from home when I had to. I also had no relatives and Greek friends around to constantly express their opinions about my lifestyle and the fact that I was travelling constantly for work. Apart from the major drama of the amniotic fluid we managed to have a good 9 months, calling the foetus “little pea”, preparing his room and thinking that parenthood would be completely different than what it actually is.

When he was born we were between two first names and we chose Philip because his one eye was closed the first couple of days. You take your laughs where you can get them post-birth. And his middle name is Ecthelion because I wanted dedicated fans only to know how deep our fandom went.

Bringing the kid home though was whole different story. I very quickly understood what a complete lie is the idea that two people can raise a child. It takes a village. Suffering from some spectacularly bad baby blues I was saved by my NCT group, my friends (some of them online) and my family members who took it in turns to come and deliver us from the utter desperation of sleep deprivation. I spent the first four months sleep deprived with my nipples chewed off as both the kid and I were trying to get to know each other and Antonis was trying to support us both. At the six month mark we took him to his room and I stopped breastfeeding. Both I and the kid did much better after that – turns out we both needed our autonomy.

London with a child is different. I had to be exposed to infuriating services – with midwives calling me “mum” instead of with my name. They were designed badly, the waiting times were long and the approach patronising. It drove me absolutely fucking mad. Accustomed to being a professional woman with a voice I was reduced to a “mommy” who was dismissed. I started noticing how disappointing I found a lot of parenting approaches around me. Before I lost my nut completely I went back to work and started feeling alive again but with that said, I would not wish the first year on anyone.

We split the first year between us – the UK having a Shared Parental Leave policy. I took six months and then Antonis took another six. As his return to work was looming closer we were faced with the chaos of the pandemic – what the heck would we do since child care was not available? Enter my rock n roll mother and my stepdad who upped and moved to London for a bit of an adventure. We rented them a little house close to ours and in the midst of lockdown we had family close and somewhere to go when cabin fever was a distinct possibility.

Having the grandparents here meant that Philip – and they – blossomed. It was like having 3 Londoners in training around all the time. All three of them were learning things like how to take the bus, how to go to the GP, how to enjoy the park, when to take the tube and when not, what’s a proper Sunday roast and how to survive the winter. My mother quickly got over her reluctance to go for a walk with Philip when it was cold cause… it was cold quite a lot. Grandpa took him along when he was mowing the grass and taught him how to tend the flowers of their little London garden.

Eventually nurseries and schools reopened and we sent Philip for a couple of days – pandemic babies being in desperate need of socialisation. His language skills improved no end, he started using knife and fork and begun singing songs with a London accent that I find adorable. From a shy boy in the beginning I am told that he is now helpful, kind and a little bossy – our true offspring to be sure.

Just before the pandemic we went and bought a travel buggy. It was a light number, collapsible with one hand – while holding the baby in the other – and I had so many ideas about how much fun we would have together, riding the tube to some London thing. Well, you know what happened next. Still, we didn’t do too badly. Epping forest is close to us so we got him super excited about trees, leaves and ducks. And mud. Obviously. And we did manage to do some London things – most memorably taking him to Fortnum & Mason for afternoon tea where he was utterly captivated by the pianist and the pretty colours.

When we went to the nursery for a parent’s evening I only had one question to ask, if he’s kind. I’m very aware that he is an only child and regardless of how much we try not to spoil him he’s undoubtedly caught on to his own importance. But this is what I was told he does: They have little water cups in the nursery for each child, with their photo on it. Whenever a child sits and plays alone, Philip goes in search of their cup and brings it to them. So you know, pandemic baby or not, I am feeling a bit chuffed.

I thought long and hard about us leaving London with Philip because we were both very dedicated to raising him here. But life will takes us where it wants to. We decided very early on that his father and I count too and he needs to understand that we are also a priority. He’s not a teenager yet to accuse us of ruining his life even though I’m sure that’s coming too. In the end though, who knows. Like I said, ultimately nobody can tell you how to do it and you have to do the best you can, hoping that it will all work out in the end.

And he better be a proper Londoner or else.

———————————-

My #20LondonStories

  1. Grexit/ Brexit 
  2. The way to anyone’s heart is through the stomach
  3. The night bus 
  4. Words save our lives… sometimes 
  5. The rest is noise 
  6. How not to bite your nails in the Officials’ Box 
  7. Always have a sister 
  8. Greek London 
  9. This green and pleasant land 
  10. The bridge of aspiration 
  11. The knight in well travelled armor 
  12. Carpets in the toilet and other adventures in housing
  13. Moments in Art 
  14. The NHS hunger games 
  15. In nocte consilium
  16. The friends we found, the friends we lost
  17. Blogging tips for beginners 
  18. Lord of Gondolin, Bane of Gothmog, mighty beater of his headboard, conqueror of the slide, aka our child
  19. γνῶθι σεαυτόν
  20. How to leave London
All the rest

The London Years: Blogging tips for beginners (17 of 20)

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“Wait, so how did you know each other?”
“She used to read my blog and sent me a message”
“What did the message say?”
“It said ‘would you like to be my friend?'”
“And you said yes?!”
“No, I said we could have a coffee in a public place”
And that’s how I met Katerina and she saved my sanity years later. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

By Greek standards I’m an early(ish) adopter of technology. I had learned rudimentary BASIC, I had fallen in love with an Amiga and in the mid-90s I had a PC, had figured out how to use mIRC and was writing in an online magazine – which you could call a blog if the term had been invented back then. The vast majority of my friends didn’t have a computer but I have my parents to thank for their early belief that this thing was the future. So I learned. And while I had nobody to teach me programming (and I was crap when I tried) I still became a relatively dedicated user and taught myself how to create html websites – skills that came in handy a few years later.

In the mid 2000’s I was in London, trying to find some sort of way to fit into the place. Being an immigrant – even a relatively privileged one – does peculiar things to your sense of belonging. London is I think very easy and very hard. It’s easy because you can live whatever life you want here, opportunities and communities being so varied. But it’s also very hard because it’s so big and can feel so far away from what you know, it takes you such a long time to feel at ease.

Those were also the early days of blogging. A friend of mine – with whom I used to write in the online magazine a few year earlier – had a blog and he had regularly been my weathervane for new tech ideas. I found myself in London, reading funny and interesting blogs from around the world and I missed writing like mad. University writing was specific, my job was still boring and I had written all the letters I could write without stalking people or sending some sort of peculiar newsletter to my sister and old friends in Greece.

And so, I started a blog in Greek.

I don’t think I can overstate how significant the blog was to my life. I had that first blog for a little over ten years – that’s half of my twenty years in London. It spawned various other projects and initiatives – like the food blog – and it opened a window to a lot more tech geekery I could have imagined. Blogs at the time being incredibly interactive in the comments it also helped me create a community. Other would read what you wrote, there would be comments, cross-posting and loads of conversations online. Even though – in those early years – most of us agreed on most issues, which is what happens when you are in a very specific bubble of people with many similarities.

We didn’t have facebook when I started blogging and we most definitely didn’t have twitter. Blogs were effectively one of the very few ways we had to create community through our content. And most of them were personal – as mine was.

I named it digita-era.org and I still pride myself that it also contains a couple of smart Greek word plays.

digital-era.org becoming

digital-λera.όrgιο

i.e. digital-muck.rampage

Of such silly humour were our digital lives made back in those days.

I sound old when I say it but it was a time of tremendous optimism for the digital Commons. A time when I dismissed the warnings of Castells and wholeheartedly supported Negroponte’s techno-utopianism. We all know how that one played out and I dare say most of us are more thoughtful and measured nowadays.

I was always an opinionated loudmouth and reading the blog today that’s very apparent. I was so young when I started writing, only 24, and knowing myself I can also see the history of becoming a bit more of a self assured adult. I can also see behind the words, the mistakes and the triumphs, the friends and the stories of my life. My politics and how they evolved. And – obviously – all my tremendous errors in judgement. While some of those things I’d never write today – for example now being a lot less of a pick me girl and a lot more of a burn our bras feminist – I know the value of this personal history. We live and learn and we were never perfect.

And it was never only a diary. It was a way to find community – I can’t tell you how many people I met through the blog – a way to grow up and definately a way to write just to write. I wrote to explain myself to myself and I also did it because when I don’t write there is a huge chunk missing and I start wobbling.

After 2009 – and the horrendous Greek financial crisis that was looming – the makeup of the Greek London community started changing significantly. We used to be mainly students, some professionals who stayed after uni and then everybody else was basically second generation. The crisis changed that. Suddenly professionals started leaving Greece for the UK and then whole families. I was well known as a Greek in London – due to the blog, believe it or not, which was modestly successful in Greece – and always used to get emails from people asking me for information or advice before moving. In the space of a year the enquiries went from “I’m coming for a Masters, where can I get coffee” to “I’m desperate and moving my whole family, any information would really help me”.

In the beginning I was writing long email responses until eventually I started writing blog posts about moving to the UK, finding a house in London, getting a job and living here. They were by far my most popular posts on the blog eclipsing anything else I was writing. People sent them to friends, uploaded them on online fora and shared them on Facebook and twitter. A number of other bloggers also started writing similar posts and we linked out to each others’ posts, in an effort to support new immigrants with as much information as possible. I could write about a funny story every day – but this was actually useful stuff and it was a privilege to be able to help, even a little.

I have actual friends I met through the blogs. People I’ve met up with in London and other countries. Some emailed me – like Katerina who saved my sanity while I was in my postgregancy baby blues. Some I bumped into at a meetup, even though to be honest the fact that I was a Greek blogger abroad saved me from some of the drama that is inevitable when a small community rubs shoulders too often. With most we keep connected nowadays on Facebook and Twitter, they might drop into this here blog if I write something. There is absolutely no way in hell that I would have the community I have without the blog and the online activities it spawned. Remember how I was saying that people assume I’m a raging extrovert and it’s not true? The blog was instrumental in being this weird mix of extroversion and introversion and still find my people.

Eventually the world changed. Most of us grew older, we fucked up the Commons and technology moved on.

In 2015 I designed and delivered a course on innovation for Hult. I was 35, the students were around 19. I asked them if any of them were bloggers. Nobody raised their hand. I asked if they knew what blogs are. Two raised their hand.

Fuck, I thought. When did I get so old?

I still think it happened when I wasn’t looking.

———————————-

My #20LondonStories

  1. Grexit/ Brexit 
  2. The way to anyone’s heart is through the stomach
  3. The night bus 
  4. Words save our lives… sometimes 
  5. The rest is noise 
  6. How not to bite your nails in the Officials’ Box 
  7. Always have a sister 
  8. Greek London 
  9. This green and pleasant land 
  10. The bridge of aspiration 
  11. The knight in well travelled armor 
  12. Carpets in the toilet and other adventures in housing
  13. Moments in Art 
  14. The NHS hunger games 
  15. In nocte consilium
  16. The friends we found, the friends we lost
  17. Blogging tips for beginners 
  18. Lord of Gondolin, Bane of Gothmog, mighty beater of his headboard, conqueror of the slide, aka our child
  19. γνῶθι σεαυτόν
  20. How to leave London

All the rest

The London Years: The friends we found, the friends we lost (16 of 20)

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“Who’s cooking this time?”
“The Italian. Have you ever eaten her food?”
“No”
“Prepare to be amazed”
I was. Seems like the Med has a knack for producing people who bring other people together around a table, wherever in the world we may be.

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

London is a terrible place to make friends. Let’s start from that.

First of all, a high percentage of its population is transitory. We come to study or to work for a few years and then we are off. We leave the city – because it’s a tough and expensive place – or we leave the UK altogether. You might have just had a friend for years and then they piss off to Australia. I mean… realistically you’re not seeing each other again.

Secondly, London distances are no joke. This is a big city and it takes ages to get from one place to the other. Unless you have friends who work around the same area and you arrange to see them after work it’s highly improbable that you will commute home (on average 45 minutes) and then commute back out for a catch up.

Thirdly, we are all busy fuckers. There are things happening ALL THE TIME in London. Please live busy lives in specific geographical areas and it’s tough to get them out of that grind. There’s a running joke that if you want to see a Londoner you have to book time with them 3 months earlier but, while 3 months is a slight exaggeration, we do tend to set things up very early.

Finally, we grow up and we grow apart. Shit happens. A new job. A wedding. A break up where people – quite naturally – take sides. New priorities. And… you know… a steady reduction over time of our ability to have fun with everyone. We grow, older, more self assured, weirder. Our circle grows smaller.

Thinking about it, I would probably have lost touch with so many more people if it wasn’t for social media. I’m an optimist when it comes to tech. Sure, a random relative leaves me personal messages for the world to see under photos but in the main I keep in touch here and there with my amazingly talented Latin American friend or the blonde pop culture dynamo from uni. I mean, I want to know how they are doing and exchange a few words from time to time!

To that end, I like what the pandemic did to how accepting we are of just setting up a conference call to catch up. Cause how would I gossip a bit with my Russian friend who moved to the Med and is rocking new interests living her best life? How would I see my friend who is now in Thailand and her incredibly cute child!

To be honest, I don’t think my mother would have been as cool as she’s been about me being abroad if she couldn’t keep in touch via camera from time to time. When I first moved here we were actually using the public server of the Greek National Polytechnic to log onto Microsoft Netmeeting and get a grainy picture of each other. Immigrants have known the value of video calls for decades. But I digress.

Do you know when was the last time I saw my best friend from Uni? MONTHS ago. We both have kids, jobs, husbands and interests. Do you know when was the last time I saw my Greek friend from Oxford? MONTHS ago. We both have kids, jobs, husbands and interests. This is how it actually goes and that, you must accept, if you want to keep your sanity.

This can be an incredibly lonely place.

I think back to one of the times I got together with friends to “cut the pie”, a New Year’s Greek tradition when we cut and eat a cake, in search of a lucky coin hidden inside. I think I saw two of those friends in the last 3 months, at least 5 are back in Greece, 4 I have no idea what they do and 1 I married. This was not 20 years ago, it was less than 5 years ago.

But.

But.

The musician was so upset when the kid got covid and I was talking about it on twitter. Did I need anything?

And then the university professor and the cinema queen took me for a burger when my pregnant belly was huge and I needed some girl time.

And then the photographer and my friend from school played with the kid while I was complaining non stop – not to mention nursed my wounds when I had a monumentally bad break-up some years ago.

And then my architect friend and the girl from Northern Greece sent me a message when I was in my darkest post-pregnancy days and they knew. And they propped me up and I survived.

And then we went drinking with the boy from Salonica and he brought 100 more people – because he knows everyone – and I don’t think anyone can show so many people a good time in one go.

And then my best friend from uni had her first kid and I cooked her some Greek goodies and dropped them off, spending some soft time with her kid sleeping on me.

And then the tall girl invited me over to the Mehndi and let me borrowed a dark green Salwar Kameez, translating the songs as the women around us sang them.

And then my friend’s mother and I smoked a cigarette outside – a few words in Italian, a few in English, a few in Greco, we had some fun.

And then we taught each other about our culture, we shared London tips and we gave each love and camaraderie and support.

…

When we got married we opted for a very small wedding in London. We celebrated with the family on Friday and had most of our friends over for a barbecue on a Sunday. They came and celebrated with us – most had seen our peculiar saga and raised a glass to us finally doing the thing that was obvious to most from the beginning. Not everyone could make it.

And that was absolutely fine because friendship is not always about presence and I don’t think any place has taught me that most completely and comprehensively than London.

———————————-

My #20LondonStories

  1. Grexit/ Brexit 
  2. The way to anyone’s heart is through the stomach
  3. The night bus 
  4. Words save our lives… sometimes 
  5. The rest is noise 
  6. How not to bite your nails in the Officials’ Box 
  7. Always have a sister 
  8. Greek London 
  9. This green and pleasant land 
  10. The bridge of aspiration 
  11. The knight in well travelled armor 
  12. Carpets in the toilet and other adventures in housing
  13. Moments in Art 
  14. The NHS hunger games 
  15. In nocte consilium
  16. The friends we found, the friends we lost
  17. Blogging tips for beginners 
  18. Lord of Gondolin, Bane of Gothmog, mighty beater of his headboard, conqueror of the slide, aka our child
  19. γνῶθι σεαυτόν
  20. How to leave London
All the rest

The London Years: In nocte consilium (15 of 20)

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This was freshers’ week, only without the mad partying and drinking. An evening university dedicated to working Londoners is hardly the place for excess – we all had jobs and families to get back to. The graduate speaking to us newbies was a likeable woman and was relating her years in uni and how they changed her life. She had gotten a degree, changed jobs, gotten a divorce and become a new woman. Fuck, I thought, I don’t wanna be a new woman, I just want a degree. Famous last words. Welcome, to Birkbeck.

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

I had arrived in London with an unconditional offer from a different university for their MA in Translation. I had opted for the part time course, seeing as to survive in London I absolutely needed a full time job. But, upon arriving and having a bit of a chat with the office I had a nasty surprise. Part time – in the vast majority of British Universities – just means that you do half the courses and double the time – in other words you still have to attend whatever courses you have alongside the full time students. Do they have a lesson at 10:00 on a Monday? That’s the one you go to as well. You just have 3 courses instead of 6 per semester. How the hell do people who work full time manage this, I asked the admin office. They seem to manage, they said and shrugged.

I had already started my terrible first job in London when I told that particular institution (politely) to fuck off and started looking around for a BA – considering that I had no actual interest in Translation and it was only something to hold onto to bring me to London. I applied to Birkbeck, the only institution that guaranteed evening part time education, designed for working Londoners, with an overwhelmingly mature student body. I was 22 at the time and always the youngest in any class I attended during my BA.

I chose Humanities & the Media. It was sufficiently generic and I had no actual idea what I wanted to do. I had some tech writing experience and I was good with ideas and theoretical concepts so onwards I ventured. Which brings us to the freshers‘ welcome. “Well, that was scary”, said the friendly shy girl who was sitting next to me, “do you think any of that will happen to us?” I looked at her and smiled. “I seriously doubt it”, I replied and then proceeded to get a BA and an MSc from Birkbeck, changing my career, my aspirations, by personal life and basically most things about me.

On the evening of 11 November 1823, around 2000 people got together at the Crown and Anchor Tavern on the Strand to hear Dr George Birkbeck speak on the importance of educating the working people of London. Following this initial meeting, the London Mechanics’ Institute was formally created at the same location on 2 December 1823, with the stated aim of educating working people. Basically at the pub. How cool is that? This foundation meant that, for the first time, artisans and craftspeople could learn about science, art and economics: a concept so controversial that George Birkbeck was accused of ‘scattering the seeds of evil’. Seven years later, in 1830, the Institute took a further radical step by becoming one of the first colleges to admit women as students – nearly 40 years before the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge. In 1903 the Institution is renamed Birkbeck College and in 1920 Birkbeck officially became part of the University of London, on the understanding that it would continue to offer evening study. (source)

I am one of those women who benefitted from those scattered seeds of evil.

But the schedule man, the schedule. I had to work full time and study part time in the evening. So that was 9 to 5 work every day, then leg it to Birkbeck for about 3 hours of lectures 3 evenings a week. Leave uni around 9 in the evening to take a bus or the tube home. On evenings without lectures study or go to the library. Combine that with a crap salary and it’s no surprise that it took me *years* to visit even the most popular places in London. There was just no time and I was of the least busy students since other also had children! I tell you, nobody came unprepared to lectures. If you were there as a mature student it meant you were seriously dedicated. Nobody goes to study after work and doesn’t see their kids just for the fun of it.

It only got worse with the MSc. My job was better but the subject matter I was studying was new so I was hitting the books non stop. Those two years were the hardest I’ve ever worked on anything. While doing the final corrections on my thesis tears were streaming down my face uncontrollably. That library was my saviour – especially during exam times, open at all hours. I seem to recall that I existed on fumes from highlighters, cigarettes and coffee.

Those were by far the best years of my life in London. Job was a bit shit? No problem. Boyfriend was a bit of a dick? No problem. Life was hard? No problem. Had no money? No problem. Regardless of how tough things got I had uni. Being at Birkbeck was satisfying and it felt important, not just as a gateway towards something but in the there and then.

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“So why did you talk in the seminar about the possible psychotic episode and not in your essay?”
“I mean, I tried, but I could not find any sources”
“You are allowed to put original thoughts in your essays, that’s the whole point”, said Peter exasperated.

Peter was still doing his PhD in those days and led some of our seminars. He had some of the weirdest research interests I had heard of and he was hands down one the best teachers I had. He was always unashamedly himself and it felt as if he was talking to colleagues. He assumed you had read it all and if not that was also fine, we could chat about it. He joked, came up with obscure references and gave some insight into the pure madness of academia. When I had the distinct pleasure to design and deliver a university course years later I channeled a bit of Peter in my lessons and understood firsthand how exhausted he must have been after each session.

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We spent the whole lecture challenging her. What is wrong with Public Relations? Isn’t that the whole point of the communications industry, finding a way to spread the message through the media?

She looked at us in exasperation. She had brought in a speaker from a PR firm who spoke about how he crafted his message and targeted specific media so that he could create pressure to save a company from being sold off by the State. It so happened that this was a Greek company. He was specific about his strategy and planning and very open about what his careful strategy had achieved. She had been horrified.

“He was just shamelessly talking about what strategies he used to manipulate the outcome”, I heard her talking to her fellow post-doc researcher after class. The class had been completely unshockable. Considering we were all professionals with loads of work experience that shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

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“So wait, you use quantitative methods to get to the proof, right?” she asked me anxiously.
“No, there is no proof, there is only correlation”, I explained.

I had spent two semesters desperately trying to keep up with the Business graduates. They were a different breed than the Humanities students I was accustomed to. They were also younger! Birkbeck offers full time postgraduate programmes and suddenly the student body was completely different! They were also armed with 3 years of case studies and some statistics – while I could talk about the nature of the city as a created space or analyse the othering of the female body etc. – not very useful in business school – or so I thought. I worked incredibly hard to catch up, I made friends who understood maths explain quantitative methods to me. I however was visibly not struggling with philosophy of science – humanities being actually a good preparation for that. I enjoyed that brief moment of popularity during the final revision class.

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“Stop thinking about the grade so much”
“I can’t stop thinking about the grade, it’s the grade!”
“Write me a good paper. Practice. Concentrate on the thesis.”

Soo Hee looked at me over his glasses. He wasn’t dismissive, he knew exactly what annoyed me and tried to get me to sort out my priorities.

“When are you finishing the Pina Bausch essay? She was alive when I assigned it to you”
“I will, I promise”
“She died waiting for your essay.”

I don’t think I’ve even seen a more peculiar relationship than the one between an advisor and their research student. They are most definitely not your parent and absolutely not your friend. But they are your guide.

“See this call for papers, we should submit”
“We don’t have a paper”
“Write the abstract with Marios, they will probably reject us”

They didn’t. We had to scramble like mad to write the paper – which got published, my first ever journal publication. It actually gets referenced from time to time.

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I don’t think I miss anything as much as I miss Birkbeck. There is a calmness in the library, something magical about the smell of old books. I know people usually remember their university years – especially in Britain – as years of knowledge, partying and experimentation but Birkbeck wasn’t like that. It was the most serious part of my life, the bit I was most dedicated to.

My research was on digital spaces, embodiment online, identity creation and expressivity, problem solving and embodied digital experiences. It was, in other words, about the metaverse. When I decided to pause my PhD I cried for about a week. Nothing has felt like more monumental failure than that decision. Things happened after that, some good, some bad and some very important but there is always something that is unfinished back there, there is a research proposal that I’ve always avoided looking at.

When the metaverse started making the headlines recently Soo Hee dropped me a line: “You were at least 10 years ahead of time. Would you like to pick it up and write a paper?”

And you know, I can’t think of anything more exciting.

———————————-

My #20LondonStories

  1. Grexit/ Brexit 
  2. The way to anyone’s heart is through the stomach
  3. The night bus 
  4. Words save our lives… sometimes 
  5. The rest is noise 
  6. How not to bite your nails in the Officials’ Box 
  7. Always have a sister 
  8. Greek London 
  9. This green and pleasant land 
  10. The bridge of aspiration 
  11. The knight in well travelled armor 
  12. Carpets in the toilet and other adventures in housing
  13. Moments in Art 
  14. The NHS hunger games 
  15. In nocte consilium
  16. The friends we found, the friends we lost
  17. Blogging tips for beginners 
  18. Lord of Gondolin, Bane of Gothmog, mighty beater of his headboard, conqueror of the slide, aka our child
  19. γνῶθι σεαυτόν
  20. How to leave London
All the rest

The London Years: The NHS hunger games (14 of 20)

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The surgeon looked at me, astonishment all over her face. You’ve been like this for weeks? Yes, I replied. And the GP refused to give your a referral? Yes, I replied. I saw her trying to suppress her anger. I could almost see her going red progressively and trying to keep it all professional. Right, she said, emergency surgery tomorrow morning. Finally, someone was taking me seriously.

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

OK, we should start from some explanations. Most Greeks who move to the UK find the NHS maddening but this is usually for all the wrong reasons. In the main Greeks are accustomed to going to specialists immediately. The family doctor idea is relatively new. Additionally, private health is comparatively cheap – let’s say 50 euro to be seen by a gynaecologist and get an ultrasound vs. a minimum of 150 pounds in the UK. This is comparing apples with oranges. Most Greeks would find any comparison between the NHS system and the equivalent Greek system laughable. The NHS would win hands down.

The General Practitioner / GP system is, on the face of it, incredibly wise. Since the average patient has no idea what’s wrong with them it’s probably better to have GPs do community based medicine and send the cases that warrant a specialist to the appropriate colleague. The appropriate specialist shall see them in due time and things take their course. Chronic underfunding, expansion of GPs catchment areas, disappearance of social services and a general air of policy havoc makes things more difficult in practice.

Take talking to a GP as an example – also known to residents in Britain as the Hunger Games. To book an actual appointment, most GP surgeries have the following system. They open the lines at 8:00 every morning. You need to keep calling (the line will keep dropping), and then keep waiting (your call is important to us, you are number… 43 in the queue) until finally an overworked, exasperated and probably bullied receptionist (you understand what that does to their manner) tells you if there are appointment left or not. If there aren’t you need to try again the next day. Exceptions exist – for example for young babies and vulnerable patients. But as a usually healthy adult it often feels like the system’s principle is that whatever you have will probably go away on its own.

And to be honest, speaking from experience, it usually does. Until, it doesn’t. That’s when you enter a new set of games, this time like a Marathon. To win in this game you have to persistently go through the Hunger Games every week or two weeks and complain about the same thing. The GP will give you progressively more aggressive treatments (take this for five days, if it doesn’t get better come see us again) until they are – by some miracle – forced to give you a referral to a specialist.

I once had a persistent and excruciatingly painful problem which successive GPs treated with what felt like a mix of hopes and prayers. The last GP I saw actually REFUSED to examine the actual area and when I insisted told me she felt bullied. I had learned not to piss off GPs and went home crying. I ended up in A&E the next day. I don’t think any of the nurses, doctor and surgeon in that A&E could believe how I had lived with the pain for so long.

It was so incredibly dramatic that I could not bring myself to complain. I soon moved away from that area and the relief I felt at never having to go that monumental bullying asshole of a GP was palpable. Because real bullies always accuse you of bullying them in my experience. I wish I was stronger but actually I wish that the system was designed to protect people better. This is the NHS reality.

After the surgeon examined me she sent me home with strict instructions and booked me in for emergency day surgery the next morning. I arrived and they walked me through the procedure and the risks, they answered my question and took me to theatre. It was clean, new, smelled of disinfectant. The kindly anaesthesiologist helped me drift off without any panic and when I woke up a nurse was holding my hand and explaining to me that everything went well. I then waited in a ward for the surgeon to come and talk to me about what had happened and how I could care for myself over the next few days. I left feeling relieved, without anymore pain, understood, heard and taken care of. My gynaecologist in Greece told me that even himself or his amazing consultant could not have shown such attention to detail as that surgeon did. And this, also, is the NHS reality.

I gave birth in a normal NHS hospital. My mother came from Greece to be in the room with me – which didn’t happen because I got a C-section in the end and only Antonis was allowed to be there to distract me and hold the kid. After a failed induction, the midwives and the obgyn on call were strongly advising me to go on the drip and I was refusing. The NHS loves a natural birth – which I hear is medically sound. I was just very attached to my ability to hold my urine and faeces in as much as possible rather than risk a tear and incontinence. I was sitting there on the bed, 3 of them over me looking concerned and insisting and I stood my ground. I felt that they were not being sympathetic, I felt like they were pressuring me.

Two days later, with the kid refusing to eat and the midwives forced to come and squeeze some pathetic drops of milk from my boobs, a miracle worker opened the curtains. She wasn’t even a lactation consultant, she was a midwife. She looked at me up and down and said, you will feed this baby for six months, or a year or however long you want, let’s do this together. And she taught me and the boy and I saw him drinking milk straight from my boobs instead from a tiny cup like a kitten and as I write this I want to cry the tears of gratitude I cried that day all over again.

This is, also, NHS reality.

I won’t lie. When I got a job with an employer that offered private insurance I breathed a sigh of relief. I now go straight to a private GP who sees me in a couple of hours and I’ve seen more specialists in the five years than I’ve seen in the fifteen previous years. The peace of mind is incomparable as well as the tremendous guilt. The more the NHS is privatised and we don’t speak up, and the more of us go private the more we are endangering the wonder of public health. But that’s easy to say in theory and hard to do anything about when you want to get peace of mind today, not in six months.

The ward I gave birth in was full. There were so many people coming in and out. There were four of us in each room that was looking a bit tired. I thought it needed a lick of paint, the windows were draughty and the visitor’s chair was designed so that nobody could actually rest on it.

My mother on the other hand was AMAZED. She has cared for sick parents and relatives in Greek public hospitals and she marvelled at things like clean sheets, nurses at your beck and call and antibacterial wipes being available.

When I was crying because the kid wouldn’t breastfeed and I felt like a monumental failure – post pregnancy hormones wreaking havoc as they do with my mental state – my mother went to the midwives and explained, god knows how, with her limited english, that I needed support. One of them came, caring and patient, while chaos reigned and women and babies also had needs and sat down next to me to help me calm down and keep trying. She notified the aforementioned wizard. She hugged me when I laughed while crying as the kid was finally latched on and guzzled down the milk.

And that – honestly – is also the NHS.

———————————-

My #20LondonStories

  1. Grexit/ Brexit 
  2. The way to anyone’s heart is through the stomach
  3. The night bus 
  4. Words save our lives… sometimes 
  5. The rest is noise 
  6. How not to bite your nails in the Officials’ Box 
  7. Always have a sister 
  8. Greek London 
  9. This green and pleasant land 
  10. The bridge of aspiration 
  11. The knight in well travelled armor 
  12. Carpets in the toilet and other adventures in housing
  13. Moments in Art 
  14. The NHS hunger games 
  15. In nocte consilium
  16. The friends we found, the friends we lost
  17. Blogging tips for beginners 
  18. Lord of Gondolin, Bane of Gothmog, mighty beater of his headboard, conqueror of the slide, aka our child
  19. γνῶθι σεαυτόν
  20. How to leave London
All the rest

The London Years: Moments in Art (13 of 20)

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[Spoilers below for Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler]

I don’t think anyone could see the desperation. Why would they? She was a privileged woman, quite well – off, newly married to a promising professor. Back from her honeymoon, it was time to settle to the delicious routine of married life. She smiled at the gentlemen, went to the next room and blew her brains out. Welcome, to the world of Ibsen.

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

The very first time I went to the theatre I was twelve. I am not sure I would take my 11 year old to watch The Night of the Iguana by Tennessee Williams but at the time we were living in a small provincial town and my mum was desperate to expose me to something more substantial. I thank her to this day. It was an historic show with one of the best Greek theatre directors and to this day I feel quite emotional about it. I had such an intense and deep reaction to it that I’ve never been able to enjoy a play that left me lukewarm. When I was taught Aristotle’s poetics years later I already knew that in modern theatre there is usually no catharsis. Which is probably why I need a walk and quiet time with myself after a night at the theatre.

So this then – the story of the promising young woman turning the gun on herself – was one of those monumental plays. I had seen Hedda Gabler before. I had even heard a friend practice the monologue for her entry exams to the Greek National Theatre school (she passed). But there is nothing like seeing this play on stage with a talented cast – someone has to make you believe that this woman is battling between society’s expectations and the interesting life that is not designed for her. The moment for me was 2012 at the Old Vic. When I heard the shot, I swear, I stopped breathing for a while.

Hedda, it seemed to me, was a warning. Let conditions dictate your life and you will soon act like a cornered monster. You will destroy someone and destroy yourself. It is time to live.

Same year, 2012 (ain’t that funny?), I was in the Royal Festival Hall for a London Philharmonic Orchestra concert and that was the first time I hear Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture.

That autumn had been difficult. Over the summer my life had come crashing down and I felt bruised and battered.

Tchaikovsky’s piece starts with desperate people pleading with god to save them, as the French army approaches – with bits from La Marseillaise inserting themselves in the harmony. The Russian Army rallies and fights back (actual cannons are heard if this is properly staged). In the end it all explodes with joy as the bells are ringing, people celebrate and the cannons are heard again.

To this day I put this overture on when I’m celebrating or when I’m struggling. It transports me back to that feeling, to that evening.

I sat there, in that auditorium, (at the back seats as I’ve mentioned) and tears were running down my face. I started feeling sad for myself and gradually, the music took me where I needed to go. Blasting the fucking cannons. I had survived. It was time to ring the bells and get on with it.

And that’s exactly what I did.

—- Featured image by Runemaker on Flickr

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My #20LondonStories

  1. Grexit/ Brexit 
  2. The way to anyone’s heart is through the stomach
  3. The night bus 
  4. Words save our lives… sometimes 
  5. The rest is noise 
  6. How not to bite your nails in the Officials’ Box 
  7. Always have a sister 
  8. Greek London 
  9. This green and pleasant land 
  10. The bridge of aspiration 
  11. The knight in well travelled armor 
  12. Carpets in the toilet and other adventures in housing
  13. Moments in Art 
  14. The NHS hunger games 
  15. In nocte consilium
  16. The friends we found, the friends we lost
  17. Blogging tips for beginners 
  18. Lord of Gondolin, Bane of Gothmog, mighty beater of his headboard, conqueror of the slide, aka our child
  19. γνῶθι σεαυτόν
  20. How to leave London
All the rest

The London Years: Carpets in the toilet and other adventures in housing (12 of 20)

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We went up the narrowest stairs I had ever seen, he unlocked the door and we were in what can only be described as a platform with a kitchen on the side. Another staircase descended from the other side of the platform to a bedroom with a whiff of mould. The bathroom was obviously a broom cupboard at some point and had NO WINDOWS. “It’s a cool space, right” the landlord said, I’m not sure if he was trying to convince me or him. I thanked him for showing it to me and before I left he warned me to not take too long to express interest, “flats in London go really quickly”. I was incredulous that anyone would rent this unbelievable dump. Little did I know then…

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

When I left Greece back in 2002 the housing situation in Athens was bearable and the economy was going through it’s pre-Olympics golden phase. I was renting a one bed flat in the centre of the city comfortably with a salary of a lowly tech writer. On top of that it’s a country that has earthquakes and so buildings are built with that in mind. There is concrete for example, real walls and relatively new buildings. London does not suffer from earthquakes and it protects its architectural character with a vengeance. While that is visually pleasing it also means that living in a house built 250 years ago is not rare – on the contrary, to the British psyche it is actually desirable. I assure you that most continental Europeans are horrified.

You have to understand something about my early years in London. I had very little money. Because, let’s face it, there are nice houses everywhere, but one needs to be able to pay for them. London however has a particularly challenging problem with housing since the demand has historically outstripped supply – it’s a landlord’s game. Rents are *insane* by any standard.

In every London borough the average rent for a one-bedroom house or flat on the private market is at least 34% of median pre-tax pay in London. The average across the capital is that a one-bedroom dwelling cost the equivalent of almost half (45.3%) the gross-median pay in London. 

London’s Poverty Profile report 2021

And obviously we all had to live with housemates. Even when you have bought your house – through some random crazy ass luck or the bank of mum and dad – it still makes sense to live with housemates cause even if a mortgage is less expensive than rent, it’s still expensive.

If you haven’t lived in this city, it mind sound as if I talk about money (and the lack of it) quite a lot but you also have to understand that this is the main thing that really is on the mind of most younger Londoners. The city is CRAZY expensive and you know if you’ve made it or not every day. Can you afford to take the bus only or the tube too? How many times a month can you take an Uber? Can you afford to live with less than 3 other housemates? Can you afford an ensuite room in your house? Can you shop anywhere other than Asda and Lidl? Is it at all possible to go to a posh bar more than once a month? Can you eat at any restaurant that’s not a chain restaurant? How many months are you going to be saving to go to *that* concert? Do you work in the creative industries in which case you are resigned to a life of pot noodles unless your big break comes along? And so on.

Let me assure you, once you have had to take THREE BUSES to get somewhere because you have the appropriate tube fare in your bank account but you can’t withdraw it cause the ATM won’t give you four pounds, you never forget it.

And rent is BY FAR your biggest expense. And what’s enraging is that in most cases, you pay A LOT for very little.

Once, through a combination of sheer luck and a kindly landlord I managed to find an INCREDIBLE house with real concrete walls, a garden and plenty of space for very reasonable money in Chalk Farm. This house was basically the dream. Three housemates or two couples could easily share the house which is what we did for a couple of years.

There was one thing that was incredibly madenning about this house. It had… seriously… I kid you not, a WALL TO WALL CARPET IN THE BATHROOM HUGGING THE TOILET ITSELF. I’ve never been more disgusted and yet, we LIVED with that disaster zone of bacteria and infection for years. Because when you can live in a house in Chalk Farm with a garden for 500 quid a month you shut the fuck up and load up on athlete’s foot cream.

The house where I spent most years in London was in Tottenham which is… an interesting area. In true London fashion you didn’t want to be there 20 years ago and now you are internally slapping yourself that you didn’t have the presence of mind to buy a house there back then. Anyhow. This was the first house I stayed with people I did not know and honestly it was a REVELATION. I spent some incredibly happy times in my tiny loft room (with en suite bathroom, I had clearly made it). Housemates came and went, the main bathroom stank to high heaven and I was glad I didn’t have to use it but it was quiet, convenient, bizarrely cool and cheap. Another 500 quid a month – the ensuite being possible because Chalk Farm is zone 2 and Tottenham is zone 3.

For the last few years Antonis and I have been living in an owned house very close to the very edge of London – the border being the M25. It’s not accurate but it works.

Do you want to know what is the single most satisfying thing about living in a house we own.

WE

CAN

HANG

PICTURES

ON

THE

WALLS.

With real nails.

So. There you have it.

———————————-

My #20LondonStories

  1. Grexit/ Brexit 
  2. The way to anyone’s heart is through the stomach
  3. The night bus 
  4. Words save our lives… sometimes 
  5. The rest is noise 
  6. How not to bite your nails in the Officials’ Box 
  7. Always have a sister 
  8. Greek London 
  9. This green and pleasant land 
  10. The bridge of aspiration 
  11. The knight in well travelled armor 
  12. Carpets in the toilet and other adventures in housing
  13. Moments in Art 
  14. The NHS hunger games 
  15. In nocte consilium
  16. The friends we found, the friends we lost
  17. Blogging tips for beginners 
  18. Lord of Gondolin, Bane of Gothmog, mighty beater of his headboard, conqueror of the slide, aka our child
  19. γνῶθι σεαυτόν
  20. How to leave London
All the rest

The London Years: The knight in well-travelled armor (11 of 20)

3 Comments

We went in and the bar was somewhat dark – it being late already. Introductions were made, this is Sofia, this is the birthday man, hello, thank you for having us etc. And then the birthday man went around, this is my friend, this is my other friend and then the dancing boy with the long wild hair turned around with his crooked smile and I thought “oh fuck!”

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

Wait, wait, maybe we should start somewhere else. Maybe I should first of all declare that my love life is not remarkable in the slightest – but I have indeed been a drama queen because that’s how I’m made. I wish I could tell you I got game or that I’m generally cool but I’m not. And like most, I’ve been cruel to some kind people and some not so kind people have been cruel to me and that’s basically life.

But that’s not really a London thing because that could have happened anywhere. What seemed to me to be a London thing is how difficult it was to meet people! In the main the local boys don’t flirt without some alcohol in em and I don’t drink. I’m generalising but there it is. Number of local boys who have randomly approached to chat me up without alcohol – zero. Number of more… continental boys and without alcohol – more than zero. So, going by my confirmation bias, it was generally tough.

On this particular day I had spent a whole afternoon complaining to my friend K. that I was bored out of my mind. Finally, after we had smoked a couple of cigarettes, completely exasperated, he invited me to go to a birthday party with him. “It’s a bit random,” he said, “but you may have a bit of fun and, who knows, meet someone”. Famous last words.

So we met up outside the Blues Kitchen in Camden and went inside together – which is where the boy with the long wild hair turned around, all sparkly eyes and a crooked smile and I knew. Like the Greek song goes, “this man, this”. Later that evening as we were walking towards the tube he asked me about my research and hearing the reply cautiously asked: “What do you actually play?” I think I said “World of Warcraft naturally” and he assures me to this days that that was his “oh, fuck!” moment.

And then… nothing happened. We got along famously. We went out for drinks, we went to the theatre together, we shared meals and went out with friends – his and mine. And that went on for years. We can split hairs about the why but sometimes things just happen, what the hell.

You can blink.

Years later, he turned up for coffee in his Sunday best – what a dirty trick to play – and spoke to me about his upcoming sabbatical. Six months off. “Please tell me you’re taking off with a band”, I said and it was his turn to stare at me, stunned, because I knew who he was before he had said anything and to be honest, that’s how it all happened.

We got married a little while later and celebrated with very few friends and members of our family in our London garden. I’ve documented some of our preparations in this blog. The registrar who married us announced to the world that we were now Mr and Mrs, adorably mispronouncing his surname which I did not take as my own.

Blink again.

Antonis has been in London twenty years, same as me. His London is somewhat similar but also very different than mine. When we got together, I took him to places he had never been before and he did the same for me. There is no universal London. This place is so big and so multicultural that you can absolutely live the life you want to live here. It was no hardship but I can’t imagine anyone else dragging me to a rock festival. He is an open minded guy but I do wonder who else could have dragged him to the Royal Opera House. But there is no magic that happened, or maybe there is. We followed each other because we trusted each other.

I do wonder what’s the story about how this trust happened and I’m mainly reminded about a lunch we had together at a North London pub. He asked about my research at the time and he listened intently, seriously and with interest. He asked questions. We plotted together, he gave me some ideas, I learned from his experience. We ended that day *admiring* each other, I’m sure. Even though I still tease him that my hand was on that table during the whole lunch and it was touched not even once.

We ended up living in a semi-suburb of London and for a couple of years we were the street weirdos. All around us there were little old ladies and young families while he’d leave the house dressed like a pirate to go to a concert and we’d go off together to a Secret Cinema evening looking a bit peculiar.

Very early on in our relationship, he was abroad and I was staying over in his house. This was before we had settled anything between us, before our first trip together, before anything that would have given us any certainty. I was lying on the couch watching a film and it felt… right. I was surrounded by books, games, music and it felt like home. It felt like this could have easily been my house. And that’s when I knew.

London before Antonis is a completely different city in my mind. Sometimes it was more mine, more… personal I guess. But it was never as exciting and as endless. It was as if I was somewhat done, had settled into a rhythm and this guy turned up and we lighted up different parts of the city for each other.

“How come you agreed so readily to leave London”, I asked him when I started interviewing for jobs that would lead us almost exclusively to different countries. “Because you are home” he said, “you and the boy”.

———————————-

My #20LondonStories

  1. Grexit/ Brexit 
  2. The way to anyone’s heart is through the stomach
  3. The night bus 
  4. Words save our lives… sometimes 
  5. The rest is noise 
  6. How not to bite your nails in the Officials’ Box 
  7. Always have a sister 
  8. Greek London 
  9. This green and pleasant land 
  10. The bridge of aspiration 
  11. The knight in well travelled armor 
  12. Carpets in the toilet and other adventures in housing
  13. Moments in Art 
  14. The NHS hunger games 
  15. In nocte consilium
  16. The friends we found, the friends we lost
  17. Blogging tips for beginners 
  18. Lord of Gondolin, Bane of Gothmog, mighty beater of his headboard, conqueror of the slide, aka our child
  19. γνῶθι σεαυτόν
  20. How to leave London