I returned home for the Christmas break in late December. Welcomed by the red buses and red noses of local Londoners, I made my first trek into the centre of London, aka “town.” London stood proudly in the holiday must-visit brochures, often pictured decked with high-strung lights with the grandeur of frosted shop windows. The Christmas magic was not in the work of a well-paid architect or technician, but rather a free service courtesy of our dropping temperatures and tropical-island air that we insist on breathing out. The Christmas catalogue readers and tourists alike must have also missed the magical ten-step guide on how to walk in London. I just heard the faintest echo of giggling New Yorkers across the Atlantic. We, unlike our Yankee friends, are less confrontational. Kudos to you guys, I wish we had a phrase like “I’m walkin’ here!” Stereotype or not, Brits have yet to master the art of advocacy. We are shy imitators and Olympic complainers, muttering under our breaths whilst saying absolutely nothing so long as we keep our place in the queue.
Christmas shopping, like every year, was left too late. Even the most detailed of strategies isn’t enough to avoid the hustle and bustle of the capital. I was far less baffled by the cost of my tube journey than I was by what I saw on the tube itself. Last year (or last month?) I had the pleasure of watching a woman fumble for three whole minutes at the barrier with her shopping, wallet, and phone to get through at Highbury & Islington Station. Don’t be a fumbler. The fact I even had three whole minutes (equal to thirty minutes anywhere other than London) to spare at the barriers observing culprits says enough. I watched two strangers practically kiss each other as they negotiated their way through the tube doors. Were they filming the opening scene of a new rom-com for 2026, or had Starmer quietly I can’t think of anything I’d like more than to take a lazy stroll under the lights of Regent Street and ignore the hyper-awareness of whether my phone is still in my pocket.
My favorite genre of person, and immediate indicator of a non-native, is those who stop and drop in the middle of Oxford Street to tie their shoelaces. It’s incredibly fearless to assume we all want to participate in an impromptu game of leapfrog. How cordial. I am always up for some leapfrog, just warn me so I can get my laces tied too! I love London because it never ceases to amaze me how entertaining it can be. You don’t need a fancy gym membership here — or a hot yoga class — to feel like you’ve worked up a sweat. Just wear a North Face puffer coat and a wool scarf on the Victoria line and boom! Free sauna.
I have sung enough carols in the last year about the joy of slowing down — easier said than done of course. This spiel is not an abandonment of that value. I can’t think of anything I’d like more than to take a lazy stroll under the lights of Regent Street and ignore the hyper-awareness of whether my phone is still in my pocket. The lawless London rhetoric has caught up to me. For that I am duly shameful and still checking my pockets every thirty seconds.
The rules of the streets for some provide what limited consensus we have left in a sea of individuals. Everyone belongs, but not everyone can keep up. There is simply no time to wait behind the tube barriers for three minutes, because it cuts into our exploring time on the other side.
Londoners are far from cold-hearted, despite the small clouds that form in front of our mouths as we huff and puff our way through town. We are just hearty and full of recycled air. An excitable bunch that shop, eat, talk, and walk with great purpose. Even if that purpose is momentarily interrupted, we trundle on into side streets and cozy pubs, sharing rush-hour war stories from one year into the next. I managed about ten minutes in John Lewis this time around. (The store, not the congressman.) I’m sure he would have loved a Le Creuset for Christmas, though.
