Travel Letter 1: Taking to the Skies

The day I stop feeling even the slightest thrill before a journey is the day I might as well stay home.

It is 6:45 in the morning. I’m standing on the platform, trying to hide a faint irritation at being awake this early—and at not having been born somewhere warmer, somewhere with tropical excuses for taking life a little slower. Even so, the sun rises over Lillehammer, pushing through a couple of degrees below freezing and pretending the day has something better in store. It may well be right, but for me it will be too late. If everything goes according to plan over the next few hours, I’ll be breathing London air before lunchtime.

It has been years since I last flew. Eight, maybe nine. Long enough for my body to remember it as something unfamiliar. There’s a quiet unease lingering somewhere inside me, like butterflies with terrible timing. Not because I’m afraid of flying, but because it happens too quickly. I like to feel the distance. Given the choice, I would travel slowly—by bicycle, or better yet, by sailboat—letting the landscape change at a pace that actually makes sense.

This time, though, it’s the plane. A small rebellion against both the laws of nature and my own convictions, with a carbon footprint I’d rather not calculate. First, the train from the Olympic city of Lillehammer to Oslo Airport—a route I know well by now—and then onward with nothing but a small backpack. Everything I’ll need for the next few weeks compressed into a few litres of fabric and zippers.

The plan—if you can call it that—is far from straightforward. Booking a ticket to one of Europe's biggest cities wasn’t enough. I deliberately skipped the return flight. Instead, I have a handful of one-way tickets leading elsewhere. Other places. Other cities. No clear route home. Just a direction forward.

But one thing at a time.

Right now, it’s London.

And somewhere between my first cup of coffee and departure time, the morning slowly loosens its grip on me.

The train rolls into the station.

On time, thankfully.

I don’t usually live by the clock, but once I’ve committed to an appointment, I become surprisingly particular about things running on schedule. This morning, everything seems to be moving exactly as it should.

At least for now.

I bought the ticket a few weeks ago, back when I still knew I had money. Money is, after all, my biggest concern. For the time being, it should be enough. At the very least, I know I’ll be alright as long as I’m in London.

The landscape along Lake Mjøsa is one of those views that always seems slightly different, yet somehow exactly the same. Easy to stare at without ever feeling quite finished. The trees have only just burst into leaf, and the first hints of spring green are beginning to appear. The water level, however, is as low as ever. Strange, especially considering how little snow fell in the mountains this winter. Then again, I suppose generating electricity takes priority over preserving the view.

If everything works out, I want to spend all of next summer here.

On a houseboat I build myself.

Getting to know the lake.

Maybe cleaning a few beaches along the way.

I take a small but noticeable step outside my comfort zone and sit down in the train’s quiet carriage. A place for disciplined strangers and restrained self-control. Here, people cough discreetly, and even keyboard strokes are kept to a minimum.

A couple of days ago, my phone died without warning. Black screen. End of story. I was forced onto a newer model with a different operating system, and with it came the inevitable problem: the ticket I’d bought well in advance was trapped inside a system I could no longer access.

The conductor—a woman in a green uniform with the calm authority of someone who has seen everything before—handles the situation as though it’s entirely routine. It probably is. A few questions, a glance at my name and departure time, and I’m allowed to continue.

No drama.

Just another reminder of how dependent we've become on everything working seamlessly.

An old friend is waiting for me in London.

In rather ceremonial fashion, I’ve been granted an audience with my old friend Alexander. It has been twenty years since we last met. Since then, our contact has consisted of the occasional message and the odd travel letter—just enough to know the other person still exists, but not enough to know who they have become.

Over the past few years, I’ve made a conscious effort to reconnect with old friends.

The conclusion has been surprisingly simple:

People change less than you think.

They update the surface—new hairstyles, new languages, new jobs—but the underlying structure stays remarkably intact. Most people still resemble the child they were in primary school, only with a few extra layers added on top.

So yes, I’m excited.

But I’m not nervous.

Everything suggests this reunion will be a simple one.

The only thing I know for certain is that he works somewhere near Liverpool Street. My task today is therefore simple: find my way there before his workday ends. The last time I was in London, that journey was a good deal more complicated. These days, as I understand it, trains run directly from Stansted into the city centre. Efficient. Predictable. Perhaps a little less adventurous than I would ideally prefer.

Moelv. Brumunddal. Hamar. Stange. Tangen.

The stations pass by like full stops in a sentence that isn’t in any hurry to end. The journey unfolds smoothly. People come and go, a quiet rotation of faces that hints at the morning rush without ever sounding like it. In the quiet carriage, everything is kept to a minimum.

I have a window seat. Next to me, an elderly woman calmly scrolls through the news on her tablet, as though the world has nowhere urgent to be. I find myself mildly annoyed that I haven’t discovered the quiet carriage sooner. When I try to remember the last time I travelled in one, I have to go back much further than expected.

More than twenty years, it turns out.

It’s so quiet that I can hear the businessman beside me's stomach grumbling in quiet protest.

Oslo Airport

Oslo Airport is a chapter of its own.

This is where the calm ends and the systems take over.

My confidence with technology extends to online check-in—and not much further. This time, even that failed. Not for lack of trying, but because Ryanair’s website froze the moment I attempted to create an account.

Progress stopped right there.

I arrive an hour before departure and consider that plenty of time. A calculation based more on hope than experience. Even so, I can feel it in my body—a faint restlessness in my legs—and a quiet hope that airport security has become more efficient since the last time I flew regularly.

Fifty minutes before departure, I’m still standing in the same queue I joined half an hour earlier.

It’s as though time itself has stopped moving in here. Only the people pretend otherwise.

At the very front is an elderly couple, advancing at a pace entirely unaffected by logistics or the impatience of everyone behind them. They aren’t stressed.

Which, naturally, means everyone else is.

The system doesn’t grind to a halt with a dramatic crash.

It simply... slows to a crawl.

Eventually, it lets me through.

With very little time to spare.

It almost goes without saying that I have to run.

First comes a short sprint towards security, which moves with agonising slowness. The passengers are stressed. The staff are not. They repeat the same movements, in the same order, with a calmness that refuses to spread. Routine has taken over.

By the time I finally make it through, my flight is already marked Gate Closing.

And, naturally, the gate is on the far side of the airport.

I take off through duty free, earning a few irritated looks from the women working the perfume counters as I hurry past a little too fast, a little too purposefully. At the chocolate shelves, everything comes to a standstill—a solid wall of people who have suddenly discovered they have all the time in the world. I slip around them to the right and continue past souvenir shops, cafés, and fellow travellers who have only just begun recovering from breakfast.

Then comes the automated passport control, followed by a half-hearted photo session. The screen quickly confirms what I already suspected:

This is not my best day, visually speaking.

There’s no arguing with the machine.

The final stretch goes quickly. I reach the gate, slightly out of breath, only to discover there isn’t a queue.

That should be reassuring.

It isn’t.

The scanner refuses to accept my boarding pass. For a brief moment, everything stops once again. The ticket printed by the airline’s own customer service—for a fee of several hundred kroner because I couldn’t create an account in their app—suddenly proves to be worth less than the paper it’s printed on.

Purely by chance, I find myself in the middle of a girls' choir from a Pentecostal church in Tønsberg, all between the ages of thirteen and nineteen. They're a small world of anticipation, carry-on luggage, and carefully coordinated nervous energy. I overhear that one of the highlights of their trip will be seeing Les Misérables.

By the time the aircraft should really be taxiing towards the runway, two choir members and one father are still missing. A quiet kind of panic settles over the group. A few tears. A little persuasion. One girl who would clearly have preferred having her dad with her every step of the way.

Eventually, as these things usually do, it all works out.

The group of eighteen is reunited, and calm is swiftly restored with the ceremonial distribution of chewing gum to everyone on board.

I have a window seat.

Next to me sits one of the fathers, who turns out to be excellent company. We exchange abbreviated versions of our lives—just enough to make the flight pass more quickly. He orders a cola and a plastic-wrapped chicken panini without hesitation. I stick to a can of soft drink and leave the airline prices alone, quietly planning to have a proper meal later.

When the conversation flows, so does time.

Before long, we're descending.

The landing is anything but smooth.

I've flown often enough to know that most pilots prefer to end the flight before hitting the runway. This one seems to make that decision at the very last second. We meet the tarmac with a determined thud, followed by a collective jolt that ripples through the cabin.

A brief squeal escapes the choir.

Then, almost instinctively, comes a cautious, slightly nervous round of applause.

On my way to passport control, I manage to Google my onward transport while walking. It turns out to be a smart move. Beyond the checkpoint, an entire marketplace of options opens up before me—buses, trains, taxis—all ready to carry me into the city, each promising efficiency in its own way.

I'd already decided to take the train.

Not out of necessity, but on principle.

I like trains.

They simply feel... more right.

Then I catch myself. A little too attached to my own habits. A little too willing to pay extra simply for the satisfaction of doing things my way.

So I do something uncharacteristic.

I take the bus.

Half the price. Same destination: Liverpool Street.

It's difficult to argue with that.

Stepping off a bus in a completely unfamiliar place is always a little disorienting. Directions disappear quickly when you're surrounded by crowds, traffic noise, and no obvious route forward. Here, it even feels as though prices are adjusted according to how local you look.

At least that's the impression the pubs give me.

The bus ride itself is memorable for two reasons: children speaking in a dialect—and at a pitch—that sits well outside my vocabulary, and an endless succession of red traffic lights.

We keep moving.

Just never very quickly.

I'd made one decision before arriving:

Liquid nourishment first.

Orientation afterwards.

I pass a couple of places already beginning to fill up before stopping at the first pub where the bartender actually looks me in the eye and smiles from the doorway.

That's enough.

Whatever it costs, I order a pint.

The bartender, unfortunately, can't tell me where to find cheap shoes.

But you can't have everything at once.

Near the end of my beer, a message from Alex pops up.

He's finished work and asks where I am.

The honest answer is that I have no idea.

Places here have names that refuse to stick, and my sense of direction disappears almost as quickly as I do.

Not that it bothers me much.

Still, I try to be helpful.

I tell him I walked past a couple of large elephant statues on my way here and suggest we meet there instead. It takes a little while to establish which elephants I mean. According to Alex, London apparently has several.

As he points out, it's a fairly large city.

Eventually we sort it out.

"Five minutes," he says.

It takes him about that long.

I recognise him immediately.

A little older, naturally, but otherwise unchanged.

We exchange a brief, uncomplicated hug before setting off towards a place he knows. I switch off my internal GPS and simply follow.

The pub is exactly the right kind of old-fashioned. Towers of pint glasses behind the bar, beer served a little warmer than I’m used to, and a steady stream of people who seem to prefer the pavement to the inside. Most are standing outside with their drinks, as though the building exists purely for logistical reasons. The sun has pushed the temperature close to twenty degrees, and the city is behaving accordingly.

The contrast with rural Norway couldn't be clearer. I've seen more people in the last hour than I normally do in several months.

Oddly enough, it isn't stressful.

The pace is fast, but the atmosphere is more relaxed than I expected.

Maybe it's the weather.

Maybe it's simply London.

Alex, at least, is perfectly calm. He still speaks in the broad Grenland dialect he grew up with, as though ten years in England have left his Norwegian untouched. Earlier today, he handed in his notice at the advertising agency where he works as a copywriter. Nothing dramatic—he simply feels it's time to do something else. He's even considering moving back to Norway.

Before we know it, we've worked our way through three pints.

The conversation flows effortlessly, without pauses or explanations.

Twenty years become surprisingly short once you start talking.

Eventually the pub begins to fill. Thursday afternoon quietly slips into evening, and the pavements grow more crowded. We decide to move on. I haven't eaten since the pancakes I grabbed before catching the train out of Lillehammer, and I'm beginning to notice.

Besides...

I need new shoes.

The pair I'm wearing—bought online for ninety kroner—have moved well beyond ordinary wear and into something more urgent. They don't have much life left in them.

It isn't only the pubs emptying out now. School has finished, offices are closing, and the city shifts into full pedestrian rush hour. Outside Liverpool Street Station, it feels as though the place exceeded capacity long ago.

Yet somehow it all flows.

Everyone knows exactly where they're going.

And they get there.

The chaos has a structure.

I simply let myself be carried along. Alex leads the way underground, through tunnels and corridors weaving beneath office buildings and glass towers. We squeeze onto the Underground, and the train shoots forward like an earthworm fitted with a jet engine.

Finding shoe shops isn't difficult.

Finding cheap shoes takes a little longer.

After all, this is something of a budget backpacking trip, and over the coming weeks these shoes will be subjected to every kind of weather and plenty of abuse. There's little point paying for quality I'm almost certain to destroy anyway.

Eventually, though, it works out.

Shoes in hand.

Problem solved.

Good enough is more than good enough.

We've agreed to cook dinner, so we stop by a couple of shops on the way back. I quickly fall into the habit of comparing prices with those back home—not because I need to, but because it seems impossible not to—while Alex takes care of the practical shopping. He knows exactly what we need.

By the time we're finished, we both feel it.

It's been a long day.

The journey. The reunion. The pace of the city.

All that's left now is to cook.

But first...

A short break.

And a can of soda.

Alex tells me the neighbourhood where he lives is relatively new. Most of the buildings are no more than ten or twenty years old.

You can tell.

Everything works perfectly well, but it lacks a certain weight.

A little history.

The flat itself, however, is excellent. Bright, tidy, and shared with two other people: one woman with Indian roots and another from southern Italy. It's the Italian flatmate who's home when we arrive. She takes the time for a brief conversation, warm and completely unforced, before offering me an air mattress for the night.

More than enough.

The alternative was the sofa.

Dinner is simple: tortillas filled with seasoned meat and everything that belongs with them.

Efficient.

Tasty.

Exactly what we need.

We eat two each without making much of it.

There isn't much left of the day afterwards.

It's an early night.

The rest can wait until tomorrow.

As often happens when I'm travelling, I wake early.

I've claimed the spot by the window and lie there for a while, only half awake, listening to the small birds that are already busy outside. A quiet beginning, before the day takes hold.

Eventually I pick up my phone and continue where I left off: securing the boarding passes for the days ahead. Paying any more airport fees is simply out of the question. It takes a good half hour, a fair amount of trial and error, and a few unnecessary detours, but eventually everything falls into place.

For the first time since leaving home, it feels as though the logistics are under control.

Today's only concrete objective is simple:

Find a charger for my phone.

That shouldn't be too difficult.

Even in a city like this.

Alex and I have a few loose plans anyway, so there's no danger of running out of things to do. It's the first of May, but here it seems like an entirely ordinary day. People are out, the pace is high, and the city carries on as usual.

The sun is shining once again. The night brought clear skies and a full moon, while the forecast promises a change later in the day: rain, thunder, and lightning from mid-afternoon onwards.

That could be interesting.

But first...

Breakfast.

We have a plan.

Breakfast at Dino's

Not far from Alex's flat is one of London's major fruit and vegetable markets. On the way there, we pass through parts of the district built for the Olympic Games a little over a decade ago. Wide streets. Open spaces. Still just a little too tidy to feel completely lived in.

We're out early. Alex is working from home today, but he still needs to be online by around nine.

The place we're heading for is called Dino's. It's tucked away inside the market itself, where traders have been negotiating the day's prices since before dawn for produce destined for everything from corner shops to high-end restaurants.

This isn't somewhere you stumble across by accident.

It's somewhere you already know about.

This is where the workers eat.

They open at midnight.

They close after breakfast.

Through an anonymous door, up two flights of stairs...

...and suddenly the room opens up.

A small café filled with loud British voices laughing, exaggerating stories, and talking over one another. An open kitchen in classic diner style. Efficient. Functional. No unnecessary decoration.

The clientele is almost entirely older men.

Grey hair.

Regulars.

Quick glances in our direction as we walk in.

There isn't a menu.

Yet somehow, ordering isn't a problem.

"Two full breakfasts!"

The man behind the till shouts it into the kitchen louder than necessary, as though it's simply part of the ritual. Then he points us towards a table.

I get the impression he already knew exactly where we were going to sit.

Before the coffee has even had time to cool, breakfast arrives.

A generous Full English with everything that ought to be there.

It's not elegant.

It's not subtle.

It's simply enough of everything.

We eat.

This is the sort of place where the regulars set the rhythm, but nobody pays much attention to us. We're left in peace.

Which is exactly what we need.

The bill comes to twenty pounds for both of us.

More than reasonable.

Sitting by the till is a single power bank for sale.

Exactly what I need.

Ten pounds.

Problem solved.

On our way out, one of the regulars wishes us a good day. Not ceremoniously. Just matter-of-factly.

We walk back down the stairs with the feeling that we've just visited a place we don't really belong—

yet were welcome all the same.

Back at the flat, Alex settles onto the sofa with his feet up and logs into work. I take the opportunity to recharge every piece of electronics I own while deciding what to wear for a walk with no particular destination.

The forecast promises brilliant sunshine until five o'clock, followed by an hour of rain, thunder and lightning before supposedly clearing again.

An oddly specific prediction.

I have no plans for the rest of the day.

The only thing I'd quite like to find is a British plug adapter with USB ports.

Beyond that:

As little as possible.

Tomorrow we'll fill the day with more deliberate activities.

Today, it's enough simply to be outside.

Directly across the road lies a vast recreational park stretching for kilometres in both directions. I stand for a moment on the small balcony, looking out over the green spaces.

Then I make up my mind.

I walk.

I set off full of optimism, only to realise I've left my water bottle behind in my backpack.

A hundred metres later I pass a park café serving beer.

It's not a difficult decision.

The first sip tastes better than it probably should.

Somewhat naively, I hope there won't be too many temptations like this along the way.

Fortunately, there aren't.

The rest of the walk is long and unhurried.

I follow the river, stopping to read information boards and study plants whose names I don't know, but which are far further along than anything back home. In Lower Svatsum, there's still frost at night.

Here, spring has arrived properly.

Without giving it much thought, I decide that wherever I live next...

...it has to be greener.

Outside London Stadium, I lie down in the grass and call my dad.

Mostly just to show off a little.

Eventually the surroundings begin to change. The city closes in, becoming denser, more compact, more urban.

For the second time on this trip, I make a completely unplanned decision.

I turn right.

Somewhat unexpectedly, it leads me straight into a gigantic shopping centre.

The only thing that truly works inside is the temperature.

Since I'm already there, I start looking for an electronics shop.

I don't find one.

What I do find is exactly what I need at Flying Tiger Copenhagen.

A simple solution.

Five pounds.

Good enough.

With that, I can cross the final practical task off my list.

I briefly consider celebrating with another beer.

Instead, I decide to head back towards Alex's place.

Almost as if I have an internal navigation system, I plot a route back to the park café from earlier and set off once again.

Almost as though I know where I'm going.

There's nothing wrong with resting for a few hours.

I start productively enough: plug my phone in to charge, take a shower, put on a load of laundry, stream a little, and finally manage to sit still. It all slips seamlessly into an hour or two of aimless scrolling while I wait for Alex to finish working from home.

It's just enough time to recharge myself.

Around six o'clock, the beer bell rings.

We set off for Victoria Park, where we're meeting Ruby—an Australian and, as it turns out, Alex's current flame.

It's still well over twenty degrees, and it seems as though half the city has decided to spend the evening outdoors. People are everywhere: stretched out on the grass, lining the footpaths, spilling out from pubs and cafés.

Every available patch of the city is being used.

We walk through neighbourhoods and across the park, following the canal where rows of narrowboats lie moored side by side. The thought returns once again: rent one of these and spend an entire summer drifting through Britain's canal network.

No deadlines.

No hurry.

Just steady progress.

Maybe another time.

Instead, we find a place with a large outdoor terrace and just enough room for the three of us. Ruby is already there. She turns out to be easy company—relaxed, present, and effortless to talk to. We happen to meet her the evening before she's leaving on a camping trip with her rugby team, which gives the conversation a curious sense of impermanence, as though everything is simply on its way somewhere else.

We stay for a few rounds.

Eventually, it's Alex who breaks the spell.

"Maybe it's time we found something to eat."

Before we have a chance to leave, the rain shower promised by the forecast arrives.

It falls out of what appears to be a perfectly blue sky, just heavy enough to create a ripple of uncertainty among the people around us. Heads tilt upwards. Glasses are moved. A few consider retreating indoors.

Then it's over.

A few minutes later, we're walking through the park again as though nothing had happened.

We end up at a place that's half English pub, half Italian pizzeria.

A combination that really shouldn't work.

Yet somehow it does.

The food is excellent.

The company is more than enough.

The conversation is easy.

Open.

Effortless.

And somewhere in the middle of an entirely ordinary evening in a foreign city, I catch myself thinking:

This is a good Friday night.

When I wake up, it's Saturday, and the clock has already passed half past nine.

Alex is still asleep.

I quietly slip out of the bedroom and quench my thirst with a can of soda from the fridge. There's no sign of the other flatmates either, so for a little while I have the living room to myself.

Outside, the sun is shining again, this time softened by a thin layer of cloud. I hope it'll take the edge off the heat later in the day. We're heading out for a little culture, but thankfully without any need to rush.

On the walk home through Victoria Park last night, I spotted three foxes.

Things like that still surprise me.

In my mind, foxes belong in the countryside—along forest edges, somewhere they're either hunting or causing trouble for someone's chickens.

Here, they seem more like part of the city's infrastructure.

A kind of nocturnal sanitation service.

Part of me could happily have continued with another beer and a few more accidental discoveries.

But my travel budget has its limits.

I've already borrowed a little from next week's allowance, so I don't protest when a yawning Alex gently steers us back towards home.

Evenings end early here, anyway.

Many pubs close around eleven.

It's quite different from Norway, where the prices tend to encourage people to do most of their drinking at home before heading out just as the night is beginning.

The compromise is simple.

A quick stop at the little corner shop.

A walking beer for the journey home.

And the final stretch back to the air mattress.

Somehow, I manage to coax the coffee maker into life.

The smell must have done its job, because Alex shuffles out of the bedroom a few minutes later, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts.

We spend the morning sketching out a loose plan for the day while also figuring out the route I'll need tomorrow to get to Gatwick.

That's more than enough.

The day is still young.

Before long, we've got our shoes on and are heading for a nearby café. Alex orders a sandwich and seems perfectly happy with his choice.

I settle for a smoothie.

Public transport here is almost absurdly simple.

No apps.

No tickets.

You just tap your bank card on the way in and out, and the system takes care of the rest.

Our first stop isn't far.

Alex has an appointment for some blood tests.

There's a scar above his right eye, the result of an incident a few weeks earlier. He fainted and hit the corner of his computer on the way down. Several stitches later, the mark is still clearly visible. The doctors suspect something as straightforward as a vitamin deficiency.

Whatever the cause...

It's worth checking.

So before the day has really begun, we find ourselves sitting in a waiting room.

A quiet pause in the day's itinerary.

Then we move on.

We take the train out of central London towards Southall.

Naturally, we miss our stop and have to double back.

A small detour that feels entirely in keeping with the rest of the trip.

The area is known as Little India, and the contrast is immediate.

Everything moves to a different rhythm.

Different languages.

Different clothes.

Different smells.

Spices hanging in the air. Open-fronted shops packed tightly together. Colours that make no attempt to be subtle.

It feels less like London and more like an open-air shopping district somewhere much further east.

We'd planned to visit the large market, only to discover it was closed.

A slight anticlimax, but hardly a disaster.

There are plenty of places to eat.

We settle on a small Afghan restaurant.

The menu is short and filled with dishes I've never heard of.

No descriptions.

No pictures.

I do the only sensible thing.

I point to something roughly in the middle of the menu and order it.

About twenty minutes pass before the food arrives.

In the meantime, the restaurant gradually fills up. A large family occupies three tables across the room. I don't understand a single word being spoken, but the atmosphere needs no translation.

Smiles.

Laughter.

Quick-fire conversation.

A good day.

Alex orders dumplings swimming in a rich meat sauce.

My own choice—made entirely on instinct—turns out to be thin flatbreads stuffed with finely chopped leeks.

Simple.

Surprisingly filling.

Washed down with an Afghan energy drink that, somewhat ironically, is produced in Thailand, it becomes a perfectly respectable late breakfast.

When we're finished, we head back to the station and catch the Elizabeth line. It carries us past green stretches of parkland and endless rows of unmistakably British suburban architecture.

It strikes me just how densely packed everything is.

How many people actually live here.

But we have a plan.

I'd seen on social media that Banksy had recently installed a statue on Waterloo Place.

A temporary piece that had appeared almost overnight.

We get off at Paddington and change to the Bakerloo line. The Underground is still something of a puzzle to me, but with Alex and the map on his phone, it's surprisingly straightforward.

A short walk later, we see it before we really understand what we're looking at.

People.

Hundreds of them.

All gathered around the same thing.

The statue.

It's called Blind Patriotism.

A man stands with a flag pressed across his face, so close that he can't see where he's going. He's just about to step into thin air, walking straight off the edge of the plinth beneath him.

And in front of him stand two hundred people.

Every one of them has come to see.

It's difficult not to appreciate the irony.

A few years ago I saw the Mona Lisa in Paris.

There were perhaps fifteen people in the room.

Maybe she's simply gone out of fashion.

We take a few photographs of the spectacle before moving on.

The day isn't finished with us yet.

Before exposing ourselves to any more culture, however, I insist on a beer.

Alex doesn't object.

We find a bar beside the Thames, whose current turns out to be far swifter than I'd imagined. It's Saturday, and it shows. Finding a table is out of the question. People line the riverside railings shoulder to shoulder or sit on the steps leading down to the water, balancing their glasses on their knees.

So we do the same.

Halfway through the pint, a few raindrops begin to fall.

Not enough to matter.

Just enough to set the crowd in motion.

People glance upwards, shuffle a few steps, collectively trying to decide whether this is something to take seriously.

We stay where we are.

We're moving on soon anyway.

Our next stop is Tate Modern.

More modern art.

Art can be almost anything.

That's part of the point.

And, like anything else, there's good art and bad art.

I'm open to most things, even if there's plenty I don't understand.

But then there's something else.

The empty space around the art.

That bothers me more.

Tate Modern is an impressive building.

Huge.

Airy.

Capable of accommodating almost anything.

Perhaps a little too much.

Walls stand empty and grey, as though waiting for works that never arrived. There seems to be enough room for half a dozen more exhibitions without anyone noticing.

When several floors are closed as well, and the museum shop occupies almost as much space as parts of the galleries themselves, it all begins to feel a little thin—

even if admission is free.

Something about the proportions feels off.

As though the building has outgrown its collection.

There are excellent works here.

No question about that.

But they risk being swallowed by the empty spaces, by the sheer volume of air, and occasionally by art that feels overexplained or overthought.

I find myself longing for something more immediate.

Something that lands without first needing an essay beside it.

Strangely, I struggle to remember any individual piece that truly stayed with me.

But I do remember where I paused.

The large paintings bursting with colour.

One of the digital installations.

And an entire room exploring women in modern art—or, more accurately, their historical absence.

Beyond that, much of it feels just a little self-conscious.

A little too aware of itself.

I'm still glad we came.

But Tate Modern could do with trying a little harder.

After the museum, we go in search of dinner and eventually end up in a small ramen restaurant.

It's warm.

Simple.

Exactly what we need.

We leave full and content.

The obvious next choice would be to head back into the city.

But it also feels unnecessary.

We've already had everything we wanted from the day.

So we leave it there.

Take the Underground home instead.

Pick up a couple of beers on the way.

Sit down.

And let the evening quietly fade away without any further plans.

That's enough.

The following morning, I wake with the quiet awareness that it's time to move on.

My flight doesn't leave until six o'clock the following morning, but overnight transport is limited—especially on the eve of a public holiday. So I made the decision early on.

I'll be spending the night at Gatwick Airport.

But first, we have one last engagement.

We're meeting a couple of Alex's friends at a gastropub in Soho for lunch. Small plates shared around the table, each somehow tasting better than it ought to.

The prices, too.

In their own way.

They're easy people to spend time with. The conversation flows naturally, without awkward pauses or the need to explain ourselves. I realise I didn't need to be nervous after all.

Alex has a habit of surrounding himself with good people.

I find myself quietly dreading the bill.

Then Alex settles my share without even discussing it.

That single gesture rescues a couple of days of my travel budget.

Afterwards, we wander through Soho, drifting in and out of shops, browsing without really looking for anything. At one store we even have to queue just to get inside.

Then Alex does something I genuinely don't expect.

He buys me a jumper.

Not some cheap impulse purchase.

A proper one.

Grey, with a small embroidered logo on the chest.

You can tell it's well made.

I make a half-hearted attempt to protest, but let it happen.

Instead, I buy us both one last beer.

A symbolic thank you.

That feels about right.

Eventually it's time to head back.

I need a shower.

I need to repack.

I need to get ready for the next leg of the journey.

On the way home we pick up some sushi and plan a few quiet hours together.

A gentle ending before I continue on alone.

Spending these few days with Alex has been an unexpectedly pleasant experience.

There's a calmness about him.

A grounded kind of confidence that's quietly contagious.

You notice it in the people around him and in the way conversations are allowed to unfold without anyone forcing them.

I'm glad we found our way back into each other's lives.

He comes with me all the way to London Bridge Station.

It saves me a great deal of confusion. London's network of trains, buses and Underground lines still feels more like organised chaos than an actual system.

We share a proper hug before heading in opposite directions.

The plan is simple.

We'll meet again in Norway.

In a few months he'll be moving back, this time to Oslo.

London has a wonderful energy.

It's difficult to say anything unkind about the city.

But with a population of around fifteen million across Greater London, that energy comes in enormous quantities.

Constant movement.

Constant noise.

After a while, I begin to feel full.

As though my mind has simply absorbed enough for now.

It helps that it's a city where you're left alone.

Nobody concerns themselves with what you're doing, provided you're behaving yourself. London lets you follow your own path, even while surrounded by millions of other people.

But it asks something in return.

Attention.

Awareness.

An ability to read the flow of the streets.

And, perhaps most importantly...

A good pair of shoes.

I'd happily come back.

I doubt anyone ever finishes with London.

But right now, I'm ready for a change of pace.

The next stop is Belfast.

A city of around 350,000 people.

Something completely different.

In its own way.

By the time I arrive at Gatwick Airport, I still have seven hours to wait before my gate opens.

Gatwick Airport

Gatwick has two terminals.

North and South, connected by a free shuttle train.

I'm reasonably sure I need the North Terminal, so I accept the shuttle without giving it much thought.

I've got plenty of time anyway.

Before that, I've already spent a couple of hours wandering around outside.

Between car parks and pedestrian walkways.

With no destination in mind.

At one point I even take a photograph of a row of rubbish bins and a sign pointing towards the airport.

Not because it's particularly interesting.

Simply because I'm there.

Instead of heading straight inside, I stop for a while.

I take a moment to absorb the atmosphere.

Things are beginning to quieten down.

The last flights of the evening have probably already landed. The steady stream of passengers has thinned. There's still life here, but the urgency has disappeared.

My own flight is still many hours away.

I find a bench outside the shuttle station at what I assume is the correct terminal.

An escalator nearby isn't quite functioning properly.

It creaks and bangs in such an odd rhythm that, for a long time, I'm convinced it's a terrible busker performing somewhere on the level below for an ever-dwindling audience.

The sound gets under my skin.

It's strangely irritating.

Eventually, it's time to move.

If nothing else...

I should probably make sure I'm actually in the right terminal.