Home is where the heart is, but in the heart of London, I felt the loneliest I’ve ever been in my entire life. Taking in the dull beiges and browns of the buildings around me, the steely grey sky, the pattering sound of rain and urgent footsteps on the pavement, I noticed everyone had places to be, people to go home to, jobs to complete. But I don’t.
In this brand-new city, country, continent, there’s not much I recognize. Watching parades of men in uniform, horses and golden carriages, marching bands, civilians waving flags, celebrating their traditions, culture, and history. As beautiful and extravagant as it was, all I could think about was my traditions, culture and history back home, 9605 kilometres away.
Home is a complicated word. By definition, it is the place where one lives, but to me, home is more than that. It is the comfort in familiarity, of loved ones, foods and flavours, scenery and sounds. Home is the vivid lights reflecting from skyscrapers, the scent of siu mai from 7-Eleven, bustling markets with loud chatter, beaches at night with my friends, smells of burning incense sticks, excessive car honks from traffic, my mother’s recipes, my father’s remedies, the sound of my sister practising piano for her grade 6 exam… I am not home, I am alone, here.
Standing by a crossing in the City of London, I take a photo to send back home and continue on my way, going wherever the roads take me.
