Well, friends, we’ve reached the end. Lucky for me, my last day here happens to have been the longest day of the year. There were plenty of daylight hours for final moments of happy London living: a trip to the Science Museum, cupcakes at the Hummingbird Bakery, a TopShop indulgence, dinner in China Town, and one last frolic in my beloved Trafalgar Square. Initially, I had thought that I would spend my last day alone, quietly reflecting on this immense experience, but when Kat and Emily offered to join me, I couldn’t have been happier. We three set upon this day like a feast. We devoured the hours, and now I find myself pulling an Oliver Twist and pleading: please sir, can I have some more?

To be frank, I think I’m allergic to leaving. I woke up with a painfully sore throat and have been sneezing all day long—a chirpy achoo! as of a small bird. I have a clenched-fist feeling in my stomach. Breath pours out like hourglass sand. Every cell is telling me that I cannot leave these people, these places, these things, which have all acquired the feeling of home.

How can I end this as eloquently as possible? Because the truth is, London has kicked my ass. It has beaten me down and tornadoed my body in its brilliant vortex. It has shaken me violently until all my dead outer layers fell away; it has whittled me down to size and meticulously sculpted my mind. I am Gregor Samsa: I am changed! At first horrified by the rough transformation, now the embodiment of willful metamorphosis. Yes, London has kicked my ass—but I have kicked it right back, spat in its eye, howled into its dark nights, and forgiven it. Love and forgiveness appear to me now as two ripe cherries on one short stem. I have learned to forgive this city for its daily challenges and have come to love it for challenging me. Invigorated by the difficulties of negotiating a foreign land, I have become a more active participant in my own life.

I don’t know when I’ll be back again, but I know that I’ll always have a home here. So thank you, London, for taking me in and showing me six months of full-on living. And thank you, dear readers, for coming along for the ride. 

Yes, I predicted the loud music, the oceans of black velvet, and the lovable grunge and grime of East London clubs. But what I couldn’t have predicted was the retro 60s music that the DJs spun into the late hours, to which Emily, Kat, and I danced like wannabe bee-hived maniacs. And I couldn’t possibly have predicted meeting three boys on the night bus who: 1. Could not pronounce my name, 2. Teased me for being an American (real original, boys) and 3. Decided to join us in climbing the lions in Trafalgar Square, where we had to change buses.

It was dawn. The sky was rapidly lightening, like bluish skim milk spilled across the sky. We ran through the square with the glee of young children and tried to heave ourselves onto the great metal lions. It’s a tradition I’ve always wanted to fulfill: sitting atop one of the four guardians of the Square, triumphant and strong, for all the world to see. At dawn, the Square was occupied by a small number of fascinating inhabitants, namely a sad-looking blonde girl that our new friends adopted, and some teenaged rapscallions who took their clothes off to splash in the fountain (alas, they were apprehended by two patrolling bobbies). At first, we struggled to straddle the lion—it was so slippery and offered no grooves for hands to grip. But with the effort of teamwork, up we all slid until we were sitting as if in a toboggan, neatly fitted together, surveying the effects of early morning in the Square.

I’ve just wrenched myself out of bed a mere four hours after I got in, ready for more last-minute fun (Columbia Road Flower Market and one final delicious trip to Brick Lane). I smile as I drink my Lyons instant coffee, remembering the lions of 4am, silhouetted in cobwebs of silver light as the sun began its ascent in the sky, and we began our journey home. It was the best last night out that I could have imagined. 

This is to be my last Big Night Out in London. I have prepared accordingly and dressed the part, wearing a black mini-dress, plenty of eyeliner, and a faux fur coat (that nappy-yet-magical Traveling Coat we procured on our very first night out in the city). Soon, we’ll pop over to the shop to buy some wine, which we will then consume in our kitchen—amidst dirty dishes and discarded magazines—before catching the train to Islington. We will dance with loose shoulders and shout to be heard over the live rock bands. Our shoes will become covered in that telltale “disco dust”. And then, when our bodies start to slump and our minds have become like soggy potatoes, it will be time to take the night bus home. In darkness, we’ll ghost through the streets of London in the ragtag company of rascals, divas, and bums.

It is a scene from a movie or play that I have rehearsed and performed many times. They say true actors never tire of their stage.

Ever since I stored my bike, Magnolia, away for the season, I’ve been itching to go cycling. I gaze at girls on their retro roadsters, weaving through traffic with skirts billowing, and I curse my chronic bipedalism. Oh legs, you have been good and strong and taken me on a fearsome tour of London over the last six months, but you lack the smooth traction of rubber tire on asphalt. You cannot possibly provide that elegant wheel spin, controlled by the laws of pure math. Frankly, you are often clumsy and cause me to stumble over myself at inopportune times. I need to ride.

And so, yesterday afternoon, Alisa and I went to rent bikes at Gabriel’s Wharf on the South Bank. After an energy-boosting meal of falafel and pita, we paid for our hybrids (at a mere £3.50 an hour) and zoomed away. Things took an ominous turn when Alisa’s chain kept falling off, but she eventually fixed it all by herself, in a very “I am woman! Hear me roar!” moment. The rest of the four-hour ride went smoothly, except for two notable moments: 1) When I accidentally swerved in front of a double-decker bus and was nearly made into fresh American road kill and 2) When I attempted to squeeze between a row of cars and the curb, at which point I slammed into someone’s side-view mirror. It was nothing short of a miracle that kept that mirror intact. I pedaled on with great shame before the driver could berate me.

Biking in London traffic is probably one of the most exhilarating and terrifying things I’ve ever done. You have to be quick-witted and alert at all times, while still enjoying the scenery and the feeling of wind ruffling your hair like a gentle hand. In between moments of total fear, I got a glimpse of areas of London I hadn’t seen on foot before. These were the in-between spots, the gaps in the teeth of Bloomsbury streets, of Notting Hill alleyways and Westminster lanes. I can’t think of a better way to have spent one of my final days in my city: outlining it like a sculpted face, memorizing the small curve of the nose, the full lips and pointed chin.

At one point in the afternoon, we took a pause from our adventurous cycling to have a snack. We found the Cocomaya bakery on a quiet, blocked-off street in Marylebone and, locking up our bikes, ventured inside. It’s hard to pick favorites in a dynamic city like London, but I think Cocomaya is a strong contender for my all-time favorite cake shop (along with the London Review Cake Shop that I wrote about long ago). I selected a chocolate and pistachio croissant to go with my latte and took a seat at one of the two tables outside. At the other table was a well-dressed man, mid-50s and pleasantly salt-and-peppered. He struck up a conversation with Alisa and me, and that’s how we met the founder of the popular Sherlock Holmes museum. He was once, he told us, an impoverished boy living in South London. He now lives in one of the most beautiful, coveted areas of Central London and has made a fortune with his humble idea of a tribute to Holmes. I’d say he leads a pretty good life: regularly taking tea at Cocomaya, across from which lives former Prime Minister Tony Blair, down an attractive alley guarded by two or more bobbies (policemen).

After saying goodbye to our new friend John, we cycled onward to Camden. Oh legs, you served me well that day, pumping the pedals with steady mechanics, keeping me in line with the taxis and lorries and red monster buses. I survived the scary moments and am now left with only the feeling of wind in my hair, the thumping sound of rubber wheels, and the solid outline of London’s fine features emblazoned in my mind.