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The handle to my green plastic suitcase rubs abrasively against my palm as I double-check the directions on my phone. It’s late and the evening travel from my temporary home in Menton France to my hostel in Shepards Busch is stealthily taking its toll on me. I don’t notice it yet though. Instead, there’s a sharp and exhilarating bite to the air as I take in the glimmering buildings of this London neighborhood. It is my first visit to England and I’m doing it alone. This wasn’t what I had envisioned when I first planned my journey. London is where my father spent the first 14 years of his life, and I’ve grown up hearing about the hundreds of cousins who’ve made the move from Jamaica to place roots in England. When I told my father I would be visiting his birthplace, he was excited that I didn’t wait for him to bring me. “Don’t worry about having a place to stay”, he told me “our family’s got you”. However, two days before my flight something comes up and here I am booking myself into a hostel alone for the first time. Throughout the next couple of days, I find small feelings of security in the hostel through the large password protected lockers, the individual woman’s bathroom, and the cheap red velvet curtains that block my bed from any unwanted gaze. The staff is very kind and the breakfast is free at the hostel, adding up to a decent three-day stay. It is cold in London, but with my thick reliable coat from old navy and my years of experience with New Jersey winters, I am well prepared to endure the unfriendly temperatures. My free walking tour is in Spanish and our tour guide proudly tells the group that this weather is nothing compared to the rainy days where she has to give tours. We consider ourselves lucky for the sun and continue on, exploring the way this city melds together both ancient and contemporary elements. We marvel at the longevity of Trafalgar square and the British museum juxtaposed against the constant flow of new faces. So many lives, stories, and world changes are bound to these places and yet the buildings look the same. On the fourth day, I check out of my hostel and head to Harlesden to meet my family for the first time. My journey sends me to the house of my grandfather’s cousin known as Miss U. I’m surprised by how much her kitchen reminds me of my grandad’s house. Maybe this is just how Jamaican houses look: the bright colored pastel walls lined with family photos and papers marking celebratory moments and accomplishments- a high mark on an exam, newspaper clippings, a child’s artwork. The large round kitchen table covered in an embroidered table cloth shielded by a thick layer of plastic. Colorful flowers and emblems of Jamaica lay throughout the space. She makes me tea. I ask for two spoonfuls of sugar (maybe a bit too much, but still really good). The company is P&G and it tastes just like the tea I raved over in Morocco. Miss U is the cornerstone of the family in England. As soon as we sit down she begins calling other members to update them on my arrival. It seems as though whenever someone in the family passes through London, they are sure to touch base in her home. I find myself relaxing at the table in Miss U’s kitchen and listen intently as she regales me with stories about my father as a child and my grandfather’s life when he first immigrated to England from Jamaica. While I was fine navigating through London alone, there is always an extra feeling of security and warmth I feel when I’m with family- even ones I haven’t met before. As the hours go by more and more family members pass through the kitchen to meet me, and I decide exactly how I want to spend the rest of my trip. I’ll spend it with family, wrapped in the comfort that I’ve missed by being away from my home for the past two months.