Travel Writing Short Story––London

A few months ago, I applied for a travel writing scholarship. I wrote a fictional story about London––we had free range to write about whatever and wherever we wanted, so obviously I wanted to write about one of my favorite places; It also made more sense for me to write about a place that I loved and been to, to more accurately describe. I didn't wanna do Hawaii because it began to feel like one of the many stories I wrote growing up, but London felt right. Plus it relieved a little bit of my nostalgia.

I didn't win the travel writing trip, but I'm still pretty proud of the short story I wrote. I want to share it with you. To all my London Fall 2016 babes: thank you again for such an awesome experience.

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I was anxious. My first time beyond the States and my first time on the Tube. I remembered from orientation to keep to yourself as part of Tube etiquette; my gregarious nature was being challenged.

8 a.m. It was like sardines in a tin: I couldn’t help but people watch as we stood shoulder-to-shoulder. As the car began to clear, I snatched a seat across an elderly man. The map above his head showed six more stops before Westminster station.

He dressed conservatively--his brown coat, tattered, his boots, worn, and his corgi matched in modest aesthetics. I was reticent to ask for fear of breaking the cultural norm, but I wanted to pet his dog. The corgi’s sweetness won and I commented on his good behavior.

As words poured out, I instantly felt I committed a grave crime against British etiquette. Then, a clipped, slightly posh voice said, “Thank you. He’s on here daily.”

“Can I pet him?”

“Certainly. Max loves people. Where are you from?”

I was taken aback that now he was sparking conversation. After official introductions, Fred beckoned me forward, whispering London’s best kept secrets: a mom-and-pop kabob shop hidden in the bustling city, underrated art at the Tate Modern, and the greatest find of fish and chips. I was grateful for his insight.

Later in our candid conversation, I confessed my trepidations about being in a foreign place.

“Honestly, I was nervous to say anything to you. I was told that it’s proper to keep to yourself on here.”

“True, but that shouldn’t stop you from meeting people or trying new things, darlin’. You’ll learn about different cultures here and hopefully meet fascinating people. You may even find yourself gaining a new understanding of tolerance and acceptance.”

Fred’s wisdom was unexpected since I didn’t think we would even talk. It may have sounded cliché, but hearing it from him was special. He had a gentleness paired with a mysterious and still lively personality; it was like listening to my grandpa give me advice.

Westminster station was the next stop and I knew our time was short.

“Thanks, Fred. You made my first Tube ride one I’ll never forget. You too, Max.”

As we parted, he told me he could tell I would love London.

I stumbled up the stairs of the station and looked up.

Big Ben. Grander than I ever envisioned. I snapped the iconic photo and captioned my post “Ben there, done that.” As I walked away from the cosmopolitan crowd, I bundled my face in my scarf, ready to see more of this extraordinary place.