CAMDEN KENT
I always used to make fun of American girls who moved to places like London, Paris, or Rome, and made their journey their whole personality.
There was always some story to go along with their TikTok and Instagram posts, such as they hated their 9-5 job, they wanted to do something crazy and spontaneous, their parents were wealthy enough to pay for the whole thing, or - like me - they had absolutely nothing holding them back, and absolutely nothing to lose by disappearing overseas.
Anytime I'd see another post like that, I distinctly remember thinking to myself, how the hell does moving to another country make your situation any better? The truth is, it doesn't do shit to actually fix the root of the problem or whatever you're trying to escape, but I will say it was a hell of a fine distraction.
Over the last three months, I've been preoccupied with trying to get the currency down and saying "pounds" instead of dollars. I've done my best to learn the public transportation system via Google when I had too much pride to ask any locals. I've been reminding myself to say "chips" for fries, and "crisps" for chips, and I've had my fun trying new foods with names and brands I had never heard of.
But what most people failed to mention in their aesthetically pleasing photo dumps is the loneliness and just how intense it can be. It wasn't really just the fact that I lived alone, but that I lived alone in a foreign place with a foreign culture, slang words, accents, and customs.
And you know what? I fucking loved it.
I loved having my own apartment, which I got to furnish with whatever the hell I wanted, I loved that the old lady at my nearest grocery store called "darling" the first time I went, I loved that the roads were different even if I didn't know how to drive on them yet, I loved how my street looked at night and how there were always people walking down the sidewalk, and I loved my neighbor's orange cat that always found his way to my little front porch.
But mostly, I think, I've been enjoying the opportunity to be myself unapologetically in a place where no one knows a single thing about me. I felt free to do what I want, when, where and however I wanted to do it.
Brandon always thought I was too loud and too outspoken. He always wanted me to wear pink lipstick instead of my favorite red, and he always made it a point to ask me if I thought my shorts were a little too short. That was just another way of him telling me that they were, in fact, too short and we wouldn't be leaving the house until I changed.
So I wore pink lipstick, and I wore jeans even when it was quite literally 120 degrees outside in the Phoenix desert because that's what you do when you love someone, but I was just selfish enough to assure him that I hated it.
He thought my disagreements were cute, never to be taken seriously, and he made all of his rules in the namesake of being overprotective of me. In reality, he was embarrassed and didn't want his boys to think he let his woman out of the house like that.
I won't be making the mistake of belonging to someone like that again, but I was more than happy to fill my time with the mostly striking men London had to offer, just like I did last night.
I knew fuck all about who Harry Styles was, but it'd be dishonest of me to say I wasn't taken back when our eyes met. I liked his low accent and his tattoos, his long dark hair to compliment his bright green eyes, his tall and narrow, but toned frame, and his unabashed confidence. He could've been a complete scum bag for all I knew, but I had a great time.
