London

Today I made my first visit to London, but I've been there a thousand times before. I was there to clasp hands with Peter Pan when he soared past the Darling family's windowsill and out over the bridges, rooftops and twinkling lights of Kensington Gardens, and I stayed up all night in front of the Old Curiosity Shop with little Nell Trent while we worried and waited for her grandfather to come shuffling up the street out of the early morning fog. I've been there at twilight to hear the pensive sound of Sherlock Holmes at his violin, floating over from Baker Street, where I'm sure I could smell the sagging leather chair and the last bit of smoke from his pipe. I danced over chimneys, covered in soot and singing along with Mary Poppins and Bert, and I skipped silently into place beside Christopher Robin just in time to see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. I grew up in London, crisscrossing the city from Charing Cross to Hampstead Heath to Notting Hill, I know its corners and its secret gardens. I've hurried down its cobbled alleyways, peeked wistfully into shop windows at dusk when the streetlamps are flickering to life, and I've come in from a blustery winter's night to warm my face and fingertips at the crackling hearths of, truth be told, far too many of these grand old houses. Today London was on its best behavior, it offered me a prim handshake and a 'Welcome.' But it felt more like a welcome home.