By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
A broken umbrella in London is a sign of resignation. A sign of failure. It’s a sigh and a snap, and more than likely a smattering of curse words; the final event of a terrible day. And as I walked across Waterloo Bridge for one of the last times of my tenure living there, I spotted a black umbrella on the ground, downtrodden and filthy. I thought back to the days I had struggled across this same bridge, my own broken umbrella in hand, the wind slamming against my arms and legs, and that shameful umbrella bending back and forth, painfully, like a broken arm. Today, another umbrella lays helplessly, in two pieces. And as I look down, that reflection in the dirty water doubles as an unfortunate summing-up of my life at that moment. Earlier that week, I had broken down in my tiny flat, terrified of what was to be; in some kind of misplaced and passive mourning for all the time I wasted for the past three and a half months. I had known I was going to study in London since my seventeen year old self stumbled blindly onto my college campus. Before I go any further, I am of course endlessly grateful and privileged that my parents funded my study abroad. But as I got closer and closer to that September date, my mind was racing. After all London was full of possibilities. It was an excuse to write that book, it was going to be filled with nights out and mulled wine and a lovely little flat and days wandering around new places, eyes wide with amazement. And I surely had seen London, but some days it was full of tears, and some days were so bland that when I tucked myself beneath my sunshine-yellow duvet, I wondered if I was wasting my parents' money. Some days I woke up and went to class, did some readings and made a sad little dinner and didn’t even look at that blinking cursor to attempt at writing. And now, here I am, in my last few days in this gargantuan city, passing by this sad umbrella, trampled and abused, and wondering if my trip was something like this. My parents had bought me an umbrella, and my dad had handed it to me, twinkle in his eye, reminding me to buy galoshes when I got there. And I had taken that umbrella across the ocean, tucked in my backpack, and until it twisted painfully against the whipping wind. I had treasured it, as solace against the brutal London rains. And then when it broke, I was so angry. That day I had woken up late, spilled boiling coffee on myself, and when the umbrella broke, I was furious. I spent much of my experience terrified I wasn’t doing the right things, that living and existing here wasn’t enough. This broken umbrella reminds me so well that the blatancy of being human is not something that is often celebrated. I needed to have done a trillion things, gone to a million places, made a thousand new friends who I would boast on my Instagram, holding glasses of various liquids and making delicious inside jokes in the comments. And I was busy trying to survive, fostering a new coffee addiction and calling my boyfriend every day. What I picked up from this gorgeous city is nothing like what I had imagined. No, I didn’t come home with a fully-finished-publishable novel. No I didn’t spend every night out. No, I didn’t even really get to explore the entirety of London. But I picked up immense people-watching skills. I learned about my habits, without parental supervision. I learned how to be on my own entirely. I learned how to dine alone. I am stronger, having been lonely. Gazing out my window, I love London. I was able to be lonely for three months. A skill I never wanted to gather, a skill I never wanted to have, and yet, I know I can survive absolutely on my own for three months. What I have done, is something most people never get to experience: learn who I am beyond everyone else.