It’s the beginning of March, and London is a dozen shades of grey fading into a sodden sky. The tubes are on strike, the trains are overcrowded, and the air is cold and wet. It’s the kind of day that normally makes me yearn to be somewhere else. But how can you dream of escaping your home town when, all over the world, people are having to flee theirs? Wanting to travel is part of being human, but today is a day when to do anything but appreciate home would feel obscene.
A Love Letter to Home
A Love Letter to Home
A Love Letter to Home
It’s the beginning of March, and London is a dozen shades of grey fading into a sodden sky. The tubes are on strike, the trains are overcrowded, and the air is cold and wet. It’s the kind of day that normally makes me yearn to be somewhere else. But how can you dream of escaping your home town when, all over the world, people are having to flee theirs? Wanting to travel is part of being human, but today is a day when to do anything but appreciate home would feel obscene.