Opera House

Final Bow

I was meant to love you, always keep you in my sight.

LONDON, ENGLAND - A YEAR LATER

The best thing to know a city without having to spend a single shilling is to walk it. If you want to get intimate, up-close and personal with the sights and landmarks, walking and trudging your way instead of sitting in a cramped up vehicle is the way to go. Just that, you will never not have to bundle up and smother yourself in layers and mitts. British showers can be quite unpredictable. Yet Win always finds a way to walk the two blocks down to Bow Street and right onto Tavistock Street on his way to the Northeastern edge of Covent Garden.

One year later and Win still couldn't grasp onto the reality of how his career is taking off. The culture is different, that's undeniable, but he was easy to adapt. Even the nature of rehearsals,-- you always have to meet the all of the instructors' mile high expectations, meeting their impossible demands but so far, none of them complained about Win's theatricality. Or atleast, not yet. Classical study in the morning, and repertoire and pas de deux until night. Strict routine but Win couldn't feel more accomplished.

Technical and stylistic requirements of the Classical repertoire had to be met as well wherein Principal dancers are expected to wake up a certain time, sleep a certain time, follow a much stricter meal plan, and stick to dress code protocols but Win, in this case, is in his element.

The Underground is the busiest during winter, but Win wasn't about to spend a couple of pounds on a black cab. Almost after every rehearsal and company meetings, Win would walk to the Tube to go somewhere else. To either pub crawl with his boarding mates and colleagues, or spend his day in total solitude sticking a book in his nose at a randomly-picked spot in Primrose Hill. He leaves right after rehearsals, with zero intention to linger and engage himself in unnecessary businesses but not before taking the time to spend a few minutes gawking at the elegant Corinthian portico fronts of the Royal Opera House. He won't miss it any way he can.

Win rounded the corner going the other way around and away from Aud Jebsen House, where he lives. He now lives with two of his roommates. Sven, a Ukrainian dance prodigy, who may or may not be a dope head, (he's rather the most niche out of the bunch) male dancers aren't supposed to keep their hair long but Sven does, probably because he's the son of the company's affiliate who runs the academy. Win has zero idea why but the guy was pretty decent and second is Liz, a cagey yet poised redhead from Essex--a real stunner with a golden tan from summers spent in the Coasts of Italy. She's bound to be scouted by the Bolshoi after her last semester. They were all totally different people from different backgrounds but Win never once had a problem with them. Its a pretty smooth-sailing dynamic between the three.

Where his next destination is going to be, he doesn't know yet but his feet continued taking him further down the Tube.

It was always a delight passing by the bustling streets of the Piazza in Covent Garden. At first glance, it looks chaotic. Crowded. The square is littered with vendors and kiosks hauling wares and goods to tourists and passers-by. But the street and the theater is carefully orchestrated that you won't even bother worrying about the crowd when you're literally situated at the heart of one of London's most vibrant dining and entertainment hub.

Win's limbs ached after each step. His scarf is damp from either post-dance sweat or the the snow fog looming all over. It sends a harsh shiver in his neck. He slowly dug his frostbitten fingers by his coat and took out his Oyster card to tap it to the reader.

Alone he stood on the other side of the tramway lines. He's supposed to feel at home but he has never felt more like a stranger. Win might be immersing himself deeply with his craft but that doesn't mean he's forgotten. He'll get preoccupied but he's still heartbroken.