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The Beggar on Grosvenor Road
It is odd, after a long journey, to see which memories last the longest.
It’s been an entire year since I spent a summer in London, working as an intern with a financial company in King’s Cross. I fell in love with the city immediately, exploring the cobblestoned streets as often as possible. I went to plays, museums, pubs, concerts, events, parades — even spotting Queen Elizabeth II twice as I made my rounds. I exhausted myself in the fruitless attempt to see “all” of London, spending far too many pounds on plays, gaining far too many pounds on all the steak and ale pies I consumed, and making many wonderful memories.
But oddly enough, the memories that come to mind most frequently are not necessarily the ones I would expect. I often remember the magnificent castles I toured, the landmarks I visited, the museums I entered; but more often than that, I remember the people.
I’m not talking about the famous people, like Queen Elizabeth II and her royal lineage. They were memorable, yes — but quite unrelatable in their memorableness. When I say people, I mean the ones who were like you and I. Like the antique seller I met in Soho, who owned a small, dusty-smelling shop somewhere in the vicinity of Carnaby Street. He wasn’t interested in trying to sell me antiques; instead, he wanted to hear my opinion on the status quo of American politics. We…
