Revisiting a place where you called home some years before stirs up an unstoppable sensory overload. The type of overload that is most welcome. In this neighborhood there are images that you've already spent time with, but it is the rest - the other parts - that send you observant, reminiscent, mindful. Two months ago I made it back to Notting Hill for the first time since. And my overloaded senses and I enjoyed the wander.
The white, white streets. The grey, grey skies. The squish of shoe souls running over the wet cobble stone roundabout. The chatter from private school kids and the cheer of their long red beanies. Winter birds talking beyond private garden fences, the ones you were too scared to jump into. Sweating summer nights from the bedroom balcony, breathing music in and the buzz from rolling words of the drunken bar below. The Kippah on the two boys heads from the house across the street. Their grandiose bar mitzvah's. That yellow door that once was red. The wafts of fish suppers on a Friday night, always too expensive, always irresistible. Those Irish housemates. Their influence, also irresistible. Your own room. Your own white room. The same walk to the tube. Dodging curb splashes from cab's. Hidden mews and their silence. Breakfast at Bill's on a Saturday. Flooding tourists on a Saturday. Ottolenghi. Markets. Dog rose Daylesford Organic candles. Barclay's bikes in the park. A palace. The Orangery. Her swans. The sound of the cheering and racing of the Olympiads on the lake. It was 2012.
The prettiest place. The luckiest year. A world away from worlds. Suburbs even. A temporary home full of life long sensory moments. I wonder how it will be in another three years time? I wonder if it will ever be home again.
Once a home, always a home. Always a place to come back to.