My London is two sides of the spectrum. Not even a contrast, a full 180 kind of experience.

On the one hand, Wimbledon with its white trim and its post families and prams. It’s a town so perfectly Posh British Country that it’s the home of tennis’ greatest tournament. Yes. We did go to Wimbledon. We did not play there. 

Across the city, past the winding alleyways and Victorian townhouses, and references to Mayfair and Hyde Park, is Hackney.

My two bits of London are separated by London.

Coming to this city is not a tourist affair for me; my cousins live here and have for decades. They have communities and friends here, and we were merely taking a peek into their lives.

On the one hand is Wimbledon country. The house is stately and quiet. My niece and nephew color in the living room. Red double deckers buses rumble though twisty streets and the “the Common” boasts mansion complexes with carriage houses and car portes. 

The houses are named: Rosehill Cottage, Thornview House, Wimbledon Place. 

In the square there is a market on Sundays that feature artisan food, hawkers, and cheeses. Lemonade stands sold herbal concoctions and fruity punches. 

Wimbledon sits South West.

2 hours, and a world away, is East London.

Hackney is North East.

The Graffiti jungle grows thicker the further east you go. The tagging gets more intricate and boastful. Apartment buildings begin to jutt more grudgingly between quaint brick homes. 

British names become ridiculous and everyone is in on the joke. The Cock and Pie, The Codswobble, the Spread Eagle.

Here, my nephews grow like weeds. Directly up, and with very little heft. They are cartoon-awkward just moving into their teens and unsure whether to be kids or monsters.

The streets are littered with unofficial merchandise. The clientele would never drink lemonade with basil in it. Or maybe they would, but they wouldn’t call it “lemonade”. 

The Tube is a vortex, a depressurizing chamber, a buffer between the two so one doesn’t get the bends. The whiplash between the two places is so absolute.

That’s the best thing about London. That she can have so many sides and so many faces, and you can visit over and over and still find new facets of her to explore.

When one gets tired of London, a “wise” man once said, one has gotten tired of life.

He’s not wrong. And while I had become, in a sense, tired of life, a foray in London did help stave that off for a little bit longer.