The temperate Pennsylvania I’ve grown so accumstomed to is an ocean away, and all I experience now is a strange remnant of its Spring.
London is odd – a week ago, we experienced a horrid heat wave, which was admittedly mundane by most US standards, but then I was reminded that one of the reasons that Americans can withstand humid temperatures is simply because we have a wonderful commodity: an overwhelming presence of air conditioning.
London, a city of so many firsts, does not have this luxury in most places. The underground Tube was too hot to legally transport cattle, let alone commuting London office workers wearing full suits and touting brief cases.
But the “normal” London weather is frustratingly playful. One moment, the sun will beat down upon you with a heated hammer; the next, the chill wind will feel like pin pricks up and down your arms. It’s a conundrum, and only solvable by wearing layers that can peal away and come along for the read.
Hot, cold, hot, then cold. It’s ever-changing, and with an occasional heat wave inbetween. Three days ago, Londoner feet waded through flooded streets. God bless those that have lived here for lifetimes, Mother Nature apparently enjoys performing whatever show she pleases.