In 2011, I decided I couldn’t afford a trip back from London, where I was in grad school, to Cincinnati, where my family lives, for the holidays. So I told them I’d see them in a few months, and hunkered down in my student housing with a few friends. Christmas season in London, in general, is amazing: there are carolers and bands playing just outside tube stations, there are quaint, wonderful little Christmas markets, there are pubs serving mulled wine, there are strange German Christmas carnivals that pop up in Hyde Park, there are beautiful symphonies in Royal Albert Hall. You’d be hard-pressed to find a better Christmas city.
But I was anxious about Christmas Day itself. I’d never spent the holiday away from my family, and I was feeling a bit sad about it. I’d planned dinner with a couple of friends, but it would be strange going a year without the traditions and rhythms of the holidays at home.
So on Christmas Day, I walked out into the city of London, and found something absolutely magical: nothing.