"Anxiety it's the need for movement and the future;
Confidence is stillness,
The knowledge that inaction;
drives the vector of a future stable direction "
The room here
Something that no one tells you when you arrive in London it's that winter starts in January. London… you dirty piece of loving shit, because there is no way to love you without hating you, the Stockholm syndrome, a fitting description of London using another city's name. We love to hate everything, while still loving it.
Winter, oh lovely winter, when you already have 3 months of cold and rain, the clear skies that you are dreaming of arrive to let you remember that the real cold is coming. There is no colder day than the blue sky days, oh we are fine with the grey skies, because we know that on the other side of those clouds is that unforgiving cold that warms you mentally but drains you physically, that cold that you can feel in your bones, the cold that it does not matter the layers, the warmth… the wind will get you. That's London.
January.. on top of that it's my birthday. I could not have chosen a more fitting day, being born on the same day as my Mother. Oh, blessed Mother of mine, having to experience such a horrible day and being able to see it as a wonderful gift. Odd beings Mothers, if we go back to Stockholm. Back home, this time of the year is the best, 26 Degrees, clear skies, indescribable sunsets, the sound of the waves hitting the sand like the beating heart of the sea that calms the minds of the tired souls looking for rest, how beautiful. January, the worst of winter is coming, when I arrived here I thought winter was Xmas, that American ideal of fake happiness, oh they look lovely on the movies, but try to not to have a rosy cheek or a blotted nose with this fucking cold.
The room I am in is my second iteration; the first one was born out of need, luck, and dreams. Highgate was the first—what a divine place to arrive when moving to London: those little streets, the Highgate Society, those old-timers that refuse to let the golden days pass, and they achieve it marvellously. Something you find out pretty easily is how stubborn British people can be (yeah, all of you), but that stubbornness, that is borderline madness, manages to create such a miracle. The first thing I remember from Highgate was the stairs of the station, the biting cold that hit your cheeks, because of course, when we arrived in London, it was January 7th, to be exact—not too cold. What a defining month for me; today is also the 7th of January, 7 years ago. Highgate station is a piece of lost history; when you arrive, you need legs. Northern Line is beautiful, but even then it takes a laugh out of you because of the fucking change at Mornington Crescent—seriously, who lives in Chalk Farm? It took me months to understand how I ended up in different places if I took the same Tube all the time.
Remember the fast mind? Well, sometimes it's too fast to think; that's why I am training myself back to be in top form—the accident changed a lot of things.
The Tube has a magical beauty, such an old machine, the story of human design being lost to time for a hundred years, the coldish warmth of the wagons, that soothing movement of boxes that hits just right on the tiredness, and just when you are starting to relax, SCREEEEETCH!!!
It hits you in the face with a screech of the loudest range that RIPS apart your head. 96DB is the hardest I have measured it, just near Camden is where hell gets loose, as if it was not true also on the surface above.
That same warmth makes the fit people remove one or two layers, and the experienced ones to just ignore it all.
When you finally arrive at Highgate, you know it's time. You walk a bit and get onto the first row of stairs; even before you know, you can feel it: the biting cold of Highgate, then the wind on the cheeks and the flap of the coats. It seems to always be at least 2 degrees less than central London, colder if you are coming from Tottenham Court Road, not so much if you are coming from Oxford Street.
That's the moment that you button your coat back on, take all the layers and put them in place, breathe in and look up, because the stairs are coming; these are not massive stairs, maybe just thick enough for the complainers to accept it's them, and they can be tall, hating-level tall.
One, the gutsy wind hits you on the cheeks, the tube's gone its tracks leaving that sucking feeling on your soul as if it wanted to keep you for longer into the depth of its routine. The tube almost feels alive sometimes, creating that odd internal breathing system of the Northern Line, with those veins of clogs whose only function is to get rid of the nuisances from one location to another. Nothing is as British as the tube; it hits you on the face with utility and lets you go wanting a hug, just lovely.
Two, the wind persists and you feel your body tighten; it's not much, you think.
Three, fucking hell.
Stop. That voice that keeps you sane.
You need to go out, and the home is near; the moment you go up, the wind stops, the tube is too far away to affect you now, the air here remains stale, because no air will clean the years of humanity left behind by the suction of the lines.
When you are out, tap on the yellow button, take the right—always take the right. It's hard to know, but the best exit is always where the best pub is.
Keep walking in the hall of the station until you see the mouth, the outer exit of the station, the one that leads to The Boogaloo. Highgate Station is in the middle of another London secret: the forest. If by math we go, London is a forest with more than 20% of coverage—crazy, I know—but the forestry landscape is another secret of London.
The cars stationed on the exit, the usual grey Porsche that in autumn is like a wink of the super wealthy saying they are present, that beautiful contrast of the falling leaves on a dry afternoon with the receding green of the background trees tall enough to hide most of the Victorian Library that peeks from behind, same trees that try to keep alive with the last will of happiness of the city, the contrast between the perfectly clean and shiny curves of the grey polish metal, with those big deep eyes that look at you and tell you to call it sexy, the curves of that beauty against the harsh broken line of the sidewalk, where so many others have parked, but you know that's its space now.
The leaves under the street light shine with gold, that gold just bathes in glory the right side of the car, which the mouldy fence of Highgate woods behind, and those tall trees that will be there when the car is gone and the lovely moment is no more than just that, a forgotten memory on the camera of my phone. The wall is no more, and the fence is not a metal green, the trees are still alive, and there is just one single yellow light left; all the other ones are LED lights. How much did it change in 7 years?
Back to Highgate, right? The knowledgeable will know that you keep walking, but nah, the stubborn new would will always have a keen eye for a challenge, the unwalked paths of the stoic, those stairs, as if the wind and the biting cold were not enough, now you are certain that it's colder than London, but how on hell if it's just 15 minutes? Which it never is, don't trust Rightmove, they have more literal freedom than The Independent.
And here we made our first mistake: we went up the stairs. Beautiful old stairs that look doable, like it always does under the biting cold when you are so close to home.
Home… that odd sense of belonging that defines our resting places.
The day was just like today, clear skies, almost no clouds, with this beautiful gradient of blues that rapture with a golden bloom of beauty, city and dust; the view from here is amazing. We saw the view on the 7th of January at 2:58 pm, same day, same hour as today. It's funny how the call is so true, how this book has always existed just for me, just for us.