London, you marvelous mix of old and modern, you patchwork of the centuries, bits built and rebuilt, layers upon layers—an onion, smelly-yet-sweet, or baklava, sweet-but-always-served-cold?
London, you hard cold rain, flicking your people’s faces with floods from the streets and flecks from the sky, you impersonal, callous cold.
London, you labyrinth of storied streets, asphalt over cobblestone, great homes and new squares replacing the old Roman roads, straight and sensible covered by a confusing chaos.
London, you loud, rude cacophony, you and your outrageous din, your lullaby of sirens.
Sirens go off in my head.
London, you heartbreaker, open to the world, closed to me.
London, you trail of strange landmarks steadily turning familiar, but familiarity rote, uncomforting.
London, you hide your passion, taunting, aloof—bidding me to come and seek and refusing to mention that it, whatever IT is, isn’t visible, isn't tangible, but is a feeling, an impression…
London, you sticky unsullied snow, deliciously gorgeous thick frosting, icing without the cake.
New York is cake without the icing.
Cali is cheesecake. Get it?