london, easter
I can’t help it—when I see LHR being attached to my baggage, I get a feeling which is hard to explain. A sense of romance, of promise, of something bigger than me creeps into my mind. It isn’t something you explain in words, but the feeling is there, from just those letters, by themselves, intimating I am going somewhere of great significance. This feeling does not come from seeing the letters SYD either, even though it means I will be going home. It might evoke these feelings if the code for SYD was instead KFS for Kingsford Smith, similar to NY’s main airport being JFK. It does not come when I see NRT, although those letters also speak to me of excitement, visual interest, a world of wonder and possibilities to come. No, it is LHR which creates a special sense. A sense of history and staid conservancy overlaid with memories and feelings from the late 20th century when London was the centre of the cultural universe for a young me interested in fashion, music, and art. It means the place where Concorde regularly took off and landed, and the place which handles the highest frequency of air traffic in the world. It means I am travelling to the capital of the English-speaking world, a cornucopia of a place, a multicultural circus of a place, an old-fashioned, hip-hopping, vibrant and miserable place.
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