Breakfast in South Kensington.

It was a slow, gloomy morning in South Kensington—my last day in London and the first morning I woke up looking to intentionally ease into my day. My daily museum was a 15 minute walk away but I had awoken so unusually early that it wasn’t open yet. Unfortunately, it seemed I had too much time to kill and absolutely no plan. Some people would say that’s good for me. I would of course say otherwise.

For all my bluster about schedules and to-dos, truth be told, all I wanted to do was hold up in cafes all day long—tea, pastries, people watching. Cozy and breathing. That’s what vacations look like to normal people, or so I’m told. The fact is, even when traveling alone I can’t manage to slow down. Maybe it’s more accurate to say, “especially when.”

Leaving my hotel, I started down the wrong side of the sidewalk—my feet already aching after days of walking in broken boots. I never wanted to walk as fast as Londoners. My mother says I saunter. But being Minnesotan, I didn’t dare inconvenience the briefcases and heels and headphones streaming past me. Most days my schedule kept me moving along with them anyway—all of us fixating on a destination. Rushing it seemed, was destined to be the unintended theme of my trip.

This tiny patisserie was down the street from my hotel, sandwiched somewhere between a KFC and a Tesco, and I had managed to snag one of three tiny tables inside during the morning rush. There was an elderly couple sitting next to me—he was reading The Financial Times, she was reading a short novel. They kept their overcoats on while sipping their tea in silence. A peaceful daily ritual in the transient morning traffic. The other side of me was three businessmen, cramped around a tiny circular table in the corner, looking absurdly overlarge in their dark suits and black coats, assorted papers and umbrellas littering their table and forcing them to hold their tea in their hands. Do you need this chair? No, it’s all yours. Thank you. A fourth crams in. The call with Berlin is at 9—they need to get into the office soon.

I sat there, eating my breakfast and reading the tiny book I carried with me all trip. I never did finish it. I was always too concerned I would miss something. I went there hoping to just live but could never find the time to sit and enjoy existing. If that’s not a metaphor...

It’s a stormy and gloomy night in Minneapolis and I can’t help but think of this moment—when I wanted to be still but felt called to move. When I got to watch the world rush around me and for a brief moment I didn’t have to be a part of it. Maybe I’m dreaming of travel, of vacations missed or delayed. Or perhaps I’m dreaming of a life where I can sit in a coffee shop again, being still among the bustle. Or maybe still it’s a reminder of how all I’ve been doing for months is slowing down and it’s not as bad as I had thought—perhaps I could have sat there all day after all and still lived exceptionally. All I know is I’m thinking of this moment and wishing beyond hope that I could be there again right now.