London

The clouds were somber, burdened by the threat of rain. The city took little notice. A harmonica’s melody floated from the entrance of The Queen’s Head pub, mingling with cigarette smoke as it danced between brick townhouses. Londoners lined the sidewalk, chatting with afternoon pints in hand. We passed a £3 bottle of prosecco between us as we wove through the cobblestone streets. It was a rite of passage for three early-twenties Americans living across the pond. I tilted my head back to drink the final sip, bubbles bursting on my tongue. We rushed to Tesco to replace the empty bottle and popped the cork at the entrance to Spitalfields Market.

The market was a cornucopia for the tipsy, abundant with vintage trinkets to rifle through and paintings to ogle at. We skipped through the aisles, purchasing jewelry we couldn’t afford and starting winding conversations with merchants. An hour later, the sky painted itself pink while we walked to the local pub. Boddingtons Ale dripped down my arm as I sang along to Billy Joel.

When night fell and hunger struck, we sat on the corner of Primrose and Appold and devoured cartons of chicken tikka masala and biryani. Passersby maneuvered around us as I chewed on my samosa, smiling at the stars.