London FUNdon.

After the 81 stair ascent to my flat on the top floor of the London Centre, I sit Indian style (politically incorrect) on my bed in basketball shorts listening to A Postcard to Nina by Jens Lekman with the aftertaste of fish and chips in my mouth from the corner pub, the Champion. London really is the greatest city in the world. If I had to choose anywhere to live outside of the US, London would be at the top of my list. It's better than France, Italy, Spain, San Salvador (...I just remembered pupusas and am reconsidering this statement), Germany, Canada, Mexico, and South America. Much offense if you disagree.

London is such a comfortable city. I don't feel tied down by societal expectations (yes, I'm talking about you, Provo). From anywhere in the city I can walk in any direction and within a few blocks find the best foods from all over the world. It's rainy. The people are quiet, composed. Literature. Music. Theater. Accents. Different cultures around every corner. Papal visits. The Thames. The Globe. No language barrier. Roman, Anglo-Saxon, Norman ruins neighboring local business buildings. David Bowie.

It's magical. It has everything and more. It's like finding a golden ticket. Or discovering 20 dollars in your coat on the first day of winter. Or snogging Emma Watson.

Tangent:

I FOUND OUT WHO THE MURDERER IS IN BROTHERS KARAMAZOV. It only took me five months.

Yours truly,

Andrew Wiggins