the dispatch #3
Dear reader,
It’s been just over two months since the first installment of the dispatch, and in that time, the first signs of spring’s arrival that I’d described in that newsletter have blossomed (both literally and figuratively) into the trappings of a proper springtime—Bloomsbury’s garden squares are bursting with flowers of all colors, the grass is a shade of green that I haven’t seen in some time, and by now nearly every tree I walk past is covered, if not with small leaves already, then with pale green buds that threaten to burst into full foliage at any moment.
All that said, I’ve unfortunately found that springtime in London isn’t exactly what I’m used to. In Washington, DC, spring’s arrival feels more like a warm-up (again, literally and figuratively) for summer—the days are considerably sunnier and warmer, so much so that it suddenly becomes possible to spend hours on end lounging in parks and on cafe patios. (Unsurprisingly, the therapeutic qualities of this transformation are not inconsiderable—as my partner Emma remarked the other day over WhatsApp, there’s nothing quite so life-affirming as springtime in DC.)
Here in London, however, spring feels more like the last gasps of winter—most days, the skies remain steel-hued and overcast, clinging to that same miserable color that they’ve had for the last several months, and while spending time outdoors is certainly not out of the question, it’s always only a matter of time (save for the few deceptively warm days that we have gotten) before one starts to feel that maddeningly inevitable chill seeping in through the fabric of their clothes. While it’s certainly nice to have some small reminders that summer is drawing nearer with each day that passes, I’ve been disappointed to discover that springtime in London lacks that indescribable feeling of joy and anticipation that I would always get around this time of year when I lived in DC.
I suppose my springtime blues, which have been considerably more acute these last few days, probably have something to do with the fact that Emma, who still lives in DC and who recently came to visit me (our first time seeing each other since January), finally headed back to the states this past Monday. Since then, I’ve been trying to readjust as best I can to my normal lifestyle and routine, but it’s certainly very odd to have my flat go from being filled with another person’s presence in one moment to feeling strangely empty in the next—it’s really quite amazing what missing someone can do to make even a tiny London flat feel positively cavernous.
Emma stayed with me for just over two weeks, and we had a truly wonderful time together—she’d studied abroad here for a semester in her undergrad and had already seen all the major tourist sights, so it was really nice to be able to take things a bit easier and pretend for a few precious weeks that we simply live together in this city. I know they say that time flies when you’re having fun, but somewhat paradoxically, lately I’ve found the opposite to be true—while those two weeks with Emma certainly felt far shorter than I would have liked them to be, there was a certain sense in which time seemed to slow down when we were together, as if the elongation of each moment was precisely what allowed me to cherish it. By contrast, I’ve found since moving to London that when I am alone, the relative mundanity of my daily routine causes the days to run into one another in a largely indistinguishable blur, so that before I know it a week has passed, and then two, and then a month, and so on.
The last few weeks have been quite productive for me in terms of reading—a pleasant surprise, given that I spent much of that time with Emma and have otherwise been somewhat buried under a mountain of schoolwork. I recently got around to reading Zadie Smith’s White Teeth after having meant to do so for well over a year now, and all I can say is: wow. This is a book that deserves every ounce of hype it has received, and then some—if not the best book I’ve read all year, then certainly one of the top three. The style, though certainly not magical realism by any stretch of the imagination, reminds me a bit of Arundhati Roy or Salman Rushie—something about the intricate sentence structure and wry sense of humor that, despite the fairly serious subject matter, somehow manages to render the book decidedly funny. After White Teeth I sped decently quickly through Manual of Painting and Calligraphy by José Saramago, which I bought from the oldest bookstore in the world during the four days that Emma and I spent together in Lisbon, and since then I’ve been reading Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie. I’m really enjoying it so far—the only other Rushdie I’ve gotten to is The Moor’s Last Sigh, which I read last year and also enjoyed. There are certainly easier reads out there, but the prose is beautiful and I’m a big fan of the colorful cast of characters (a hallmark of Rushdie’s stories, like in any good magical realism book).
As I mentioned before, I’ve been quite busy, especially since Emma left, with schoolwork—our spring term ended at the end of March, which means that summative papers are due in the coming weeks. That said, as busy as it’s kept me, I’m actually quite enjoying writing these papers, in particular the essay I'm working on for my Internationalism and Solidarity class. I’m writing about the history of political Blackness in Britain, and the lessons that this framework may hold for anti-racist organizing in the present day. It’s a complex topic and not without controversy, but I find it absolutely fascinating and have had a really enjoyable time researching it so far. Depending on how this paper ends up going, it’s very possible that I may end up turning it in some form into an essay for no more mangoes, so stay tuned!
I’ll wrap this up by saying that I recently discovered the wonderful podcast If Books Could Kill, hosted by Michael Hobbes and Peter Shamshiri, and I’ve been absolutely hooked. The basic premise of the show is that each episode, the hosts read and discuss a different horrible “airport book” (think Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers, Rhonda Byrne’s The Secret, etc.) and absolutely rip it to shreds. It’s hilarious and extremely informative, and I very much recommend it.
That’s all for now, I think. Stay tuned for another essay dropping in a few weeks!
Until next time,
Pranay
So good to encounter other If Books Could Kill people - I of course love how vicious they are but also appreciate that they try to think through good faith interpretations too. I've had White Teeth for ages and this might be the push I need to read it - NW is also good for London vibes imo. Personally I think Rushdie has some hits and misses which is to say I would recommend avoiding the Two Years Eight Months one. The books he wrote for his kids are mega delightful though!