This is the letter I wrote for the Dear London competition organized by Letters Live. When I first saw the call for participation, I was so excited, and I knew I had to write something since London was, at some point, an important part of our lives. It was there before New York. I spent hours during summer to draft a letter, then convinced myself not to submit. But just a week before the deadline, after we came back from my 60th birthday celebrations, I typed the letter below in 8 hours and sent it immediately before talking myself out of it a second time. Is it the best I could have done? No. But the process reminded me so many things, specifically myself at the beginning of my 5th decade, which turned out to be exactly what I needed at the beginning of my 6th decade.
My letter was one of the 3,000 submitted, unfortunately not among the ones shortlisted. I loved the experience of dreaming and waiting, and I am especially proud of myself for submitting, not listening the annoying voice in my head who is always against my writing. There was also a word limit of 500, which I did not handle well.
Dear London,
It has been six years since I said goodbye to you at Heathrow on a late August day. It wasn’t a farewell. Even though Oxford increasingly took more of my time with my son studying there, you knew I loved you dearly, a first love, you might say. I was going to come back by myself, for myself, and we would bounce back to where we were before.
We met during my thirties. For you, I was just one of the millions visiting from abroad. But for me, it was an overdue union. For many years, I had lived with Holmes and Poirot, wandering your streets with them, searching for clues and the culprit, and occasionally visiting the mighty Scotland Yard. I stayed at the Bertram Hotel with Miss Marple, and I was with the Bennet sisters attending balls, hoping to encounter Bingley or Darcy.
Our bond grew over the years, during which I used all the excuses to fly in. It was a walk by the river, or a glass of wine in a tranquil garden, or a tea with a book that made me fall in love with you. Then came the idea of moving in with you during my 50th birthday celebrations, a ten-day visit I took with my kids before dropping the younger one off at Oxford. The idea turned into a plan to rent a small flat and start writing the mystery novel that was growing in me. What a perfect life for the fifth decade!
Then life happened, and I drifted away without a farewell or recognising what our relationship meant to me. When I finally returned last November, it dawned on me that I had left a part of myself with you, and I had forgotten all about the version of me when I was in love with you. I carried a strong feeling of returning home, long forgotten but much missed. For that, I blame you.
You should have held on to us and created excuses for me to stay, like a handsome Brit. You were my first love. I was willing to let go of my hometown, everyone in it, and to start with you. But you did nothing. And I was too confused with life to appreciate all the things you could have provided.
Now I live across the pond, starting my sixth decade in a city as vibrant as you. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy where I am, enjoying my life close to my now adult children. But I failed to write my mystery book. For that, I also blame you. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to write a crime novel without your inspiration?
But my dearest London, I decided to pursue myself when I was with you, despite the decade gone by. So, expect to see me frequently, especially during the gloomiest months, trying to get inspired by the weather, by the fog.
See you soon, my love.