London, England, was a place where the tap water tasted dry and where I learned how alarming it is to be labeled a romantic rather than fancying myself one. There's something humbling about a person calling you a romantic, in the sense any thread of pragmatism anchoring oneself unravels, and one is abandoned in the reality they've created for themselves.

The streets melded centuries-old and modern new, and in this city I felt both like a depressed fool yet equally inspired to embrace the English mentality behind fortitude of the promise of uncertain opportunities. Many people I spoke to, I believe, feel London is - like its tap water - dry, direct, and predictable; and in this appeal, they either reject the cosmopolitan attitude or rejoice in its routine march to carry on. Personally, I found it rather enthralling for an entirely other reason: a cosmopolitan London, unlike New York, allows space for the individual in the march, instead of having to learn how to march in the footsteps of another.

London felt like a parallel universe to New York, but one where the streets were wider, cleaner, and people could tell you to fuck off in the most agreeable manner. Instead of being swept down the current of crowded streets, London seemed to hum in any way one wanted it to.

I sound as if I'm writing as an expert on the culture, even though I was only there for a full 72 hours. With my curiosity to become an expert, I could stay for a lifetime. Walking through the city brought you past bricks that had witnessed centuries of plague, destruction, and victory then spit you into metal and glass fortresses that rose from the ashes of triumph.

The way the sky periodically cried - elegantly, with class - made me want to sink my roots into the cobblestone and become accustomed to a past tied to a right to pride. London recognized my restlessness but heightened my inadequacy. London's undeniable fortitude forced me to abandon all of my claims to realism and confess I am a romantic. I can't deny it.

Because I am a romantic, I am also sad. There's nothing sensible or pragmatic about being sad. Perhaps, I should be more direct in life: sorting things into yes or no, black or white, marching forward. I think I would feel less of a fool that way. But is it too much to want to choose passion?

After falling out of love with so many things in unexpected ways - apathy, frustration, change - London made me want to run free, emblazoned with love and rage again. Freeing my claims to reason made me want to be in love with life again.

Visit to London, England — Kasey Broekema
Made on Tilda