I am 23. I am walking the streets on a cold, blustery day. I am still trying to remember which way to look at the streetlights, so I end up turning my head side to side – a sure sign of a tourist – so I don’t get hit by one of the wayward cabs. The horns blare at me as I jump up on the curb, getting water into my boots. Bloody England.

I am new to this country, though we all speak the same language. I am young, but wonder when I started feeling this old. I am alone, for the most part, knowing only a few people in this entire country and yet I still feel comfortable with the tea and the quaint little room that I have to drag my three over-stuffed suitcases into as I almost fall down the rickety stairs. The walls are pink, and have small flowers on them. The seams do not match up.

The bathroom has a strange flourescent light that poorly illuminates the cramped room. The toilet has a strange lever, and the water level is lower than it is at home. The bed is soft – others would call it too soft, but I think it’s perfect.

The morning comes earlier than I would like, and I begin to get used to The Big Breakfast on BBC4. The announcers are annoying and somewhat raunchy, but I find it calming in a peculiar way. The shower is makeshift, and the water pressure is ridiculous. I should know this by now about London.

I am 23 1/2. Seven months have passed, and I am in a new room. The counters are spotless. The bathroom has a phone next to the toilet, and the flushing lever is common. The cabs outside are blaring at someone else, some other tourist who is looking left-right-left-right-left before embarking onto the street. The weather is warmer, and I know that the prawn sandwich is my favorite at Pret-a-Manger. It is unusually pleasant for March, and the light overcoat that I bought at Zara a few months back is unnecessary when the wind stops. I like this area, I like the Lush store around the corner that I can smell from blocks away, I even like the tourists in Knightsbridge. I feel educated, I know my way around, and I know that I can get into the Long Bar at the Sanderson if I wanted to.

I am 26 1/2. I am in a dimly lit office, wearing a scarf that I could have gotten in London for a killing. My hair is in two buns on the side/top of my head, and they’re a bit too tight and starting to give me a headache. I am in need of a nap. The light scent of my perfume brings me back to three years ago, when I found this uncommon scent as I was walking along a street both foreign and familiar to me. All of a sudden, I am 23 again. And it feels like home.