London, "at the dead hour"

The Embankment, 6:00 AM

"He turned at random to the right along the river. Never in his life had he walked through a great city at the dead hour. Not a passion alive, nor a thought of gain; haste asleep, and terrors dreaming; here and there would be one turning on his bed; perchance a soul passing. Down on the water lighters and barges lay shadowy and abandoned, with red lights burning; the lamps along the Embankment shone without purpose, as if they had been freed." Galsworthy (275)

I really miss London. It was not the best of times, but then it was not precisely the worst of times, either. I miss walking the streets, I miss the people, I miss all those things that are so different from what I have grown up with in the States. There is some consolation in knowing that whenever I travel there again -- even if it is only for a weekend -- I won't feel a tourist, a mere visitor, but as though I am entering another home. I know the streets so well; I can see them clearly in my mind. I remember all the little stores on the Strand, the theatre's in the West End, the cobble stoned side roads that lead to nowhere. I feel a part of me is still in London. It is a wonderful feeling to hold such familiarity with a place, despite ones distance from it.