I DIDN’T THINK I would feel lost and alone in London—but I most certainly did. A little jet-lagged, a little sick, gone one too many days from my kids, I felt rudderless. The unfamiliar streets seemed daunting, and I wanted to give up on the whole project. Who cares if London is cozy or not? I thought. Really! Who cares? There were wars being fought, refugees trying to find a home, Brexit had just been voted on. In our country, the results of an embittered and astounding election had left everyone reeling. Who the bloody hell cared about small things anymore? But in every time of personal upheaval and reckoning, the smallest parts of life have been the only things powerful enough to pull me through.
So, standing on an ordinary-enough-looking street, what I asked myself was, How can I attach to something? How can I bring something true about who I am and hook it into this city? I thought that if I was able to ground myself if only for a minute, I would then be able open the aperture, let in my surroundings, and keep going with the order of the day. Was there a tree I liked? A telephone booth? Peering in the windows, I felt like an anxious teenager unable to find a seat in the cafeteria. What could I see? Turned out it was a name: PAUL. I’ve always liked that name, and there it was in bold letters over the bread counter of a coffee shop. Seeing it, I felt a tug of familiarity, a sense of calm, a sense that all would be okay once I was seated inside. It was a spark of a feeling, but enough of one that I fanned the flame and opened the door.
Inside, people were chatting, working, reading the paper in a similar way to what I might find in my neighborhood at home. On the wall there was a sign that read, Our family has been making bread with a passion since 1889. There were no corners left, so I chose a place to sit near the wall where it would be easy to observe while I drank frothy misto and ate a croissant. Next to me, three Israeli women were sipping coffee and tucking into gossipy, giggly chat. They could have been a group of moms I knew taking a break after school drop-off. I noticed how much I loved my sturdy watch. To my right, there was some sort of tutoring lesson. The teacher and student were battling particularly flakey pastries that were making a mess of their math work. It was run-of-the-mill, recognizable, and as though it were a chemical change, I could feel my attitude adjusting and arranging itself in a positive way.
When I left PAUL fortified and centered, the rest of my wandering seemed manageable. A book shop straight out of a Mike Nichols rom-com appeared around a corner, and I bought the paperback of the novel All the Light We Cannot See. A few blocks down was a butcher who sold real English hand pies—treasures displayed through an old-fashioned window. I chose one filled with chicken and peas for lunch, which, if I could swing it, I would eat in a park while I read my new book. It was a little nippy, but I was prepared with a large scarf in my backpack to wrap around me. The book and the scarf were stepping-stones, and by having them, my willingness to explore and absorb the city was full-on—I was even okay with getting lost, which I promptly did—and that’s how I found the park. “All who wander are not lost” is a favorite J. R. R. Tolkien quote in our household. Wandering for some is the coziest of all because there is freedom, bravery, creativity, and spirit in not knowing what lies ahead—it goes back to Shackleton, and Bruce Springsteen!
You don’t have to be in a foreign country to feel far away. When my first husband told me he was leaving, I felt lost in my own kitchen. When my father had a stroke, I felt lost in my own driveway. When my dog died at the vet when I wasn’t with her, I felt lost in my own bed. The questions are: What will bring you back? What will help you find your way? How can you survive the disorientation? I think besides radical, bold moves often required to walk another mile, sometimes a good place to start is by holding your reading glasses in your palm, wrapping a scarf around your neck, or listening for birdsong in a tree above.