Back to Paddington

Time, time, time is on my mind. I travel the world and experience all stages of life in the space of my mind; I revisit the past and dream of the future; I try to grasp the present as it forsakes me in the span of a second. It’s all a dream really—an unforgettable dream, that haunts me and eludes me and tempts me. I feel as though I’ve seen the world and know nothing of it simultaneously.

This weekend, the early winter shocked us all and forced me to pull out my winter coat from the bowels of my closet. I shoved the hangars aside and the dresses swirled around my arms, attempting to ensnare me. Finally, I found the very last item, my beloved winter coat that I’ve had for years. I pulled it out reluctantly, but gently, and slipped it on. My fingers dug into the pockets and met some missing tubes of lip gloss and some slips of paper that felt like tickets. I pulled them out and discovered London Paddington train passes.

And I was back there, in an instant. A friend told me that to return to Oxford now would be like returning to Narnia as a grown-up, which I thought was so wise, so fitting. And those tickets were like a taste of journeying back. It’s funny how tangible things make it all so much more real. I love to scrapbook, and sometimes I feel like I’m collecting evidence to make the case that I’ve lived a beautiful life. When I read about Prague, Venice, London, Oxford, Rome, I’m struggling to make the connection: I’ve been there; I really have. Look at this photo for proof.

C.S. Lewis once said that he thought of Euston station whenever he heard the word London. For me, the word Paddington will always drag me back there, vividly, whether I want to go or not. I remember the birds, the cold (it was always cold in Paddington), the sense of isolation, the little hidden (heated!) waiting room I finally discovered, the Upper Crust I would get lunch or dinner at, the sense of anticipation as the departure screen finally read “boarding” for my platform. Paddington made me feel anonymous but a part of something bigger than myself too—the railroads that transformed England, the modern trains that are efficient and quintessentially British, the possibility of penetrating the English countryside.

The weather takes me back, too. When I remember my travels, I think of my Vienna, my Athens, my Stonehenge. A crisp day, both gray and bright, brings me back to Bath. Winter twilight belongs to London; a magnificent, fiery sunset will be tied to Venice indefinitely. My memories of these places feel almost two-dimensional now, reduced to a type of weather, and yet they are also warm with rich sensory memories. How I wish I could revisit these places and bring new seasons, new memories, new depth to my associations. I’m hungry for more travel, while also craving stability.

I want to go back; I want to stay here. I want to grow up; I want to remain exactly this age. I want something new; I want to be in a place long enough to claim it as my own. My life at the moment is a struggle to want any one thing concretely, steadfastly. I’m subject to fears and endless bouts of wistfulness.

I wish I could progress beyond these posts chalk full of nostalgia. Don’t you know I want to go forward, forward, forward? But stop, hold me, let me just savor now. Not back then, or then, or whenever—just now. I just want a steady, exciting, comfortable now.