Last night, I dreamt of London again.

Yes, I am trying to capture the dark ethereal magic of Daphne du Maurier's opening lines from her novel Rebecca, which begins "I dreamt of Manderley again" (chiiiiiills). I'm not sure how well I captured that - but I thought it fitting as I did, in fact, dream of London again.

I dream of London a lot. Is that strange? Shrug. I guess most dreams tend to be strange and mine are generally extremely abstract, so I guess asking someone to label a dream subject as strange is asking someone to label pretzels as salty. It's what they are - naturally. But I do dream of London and this morning, I fought very decisively not to leave Oxford street and continue my search for a reasonably priced flat (yes... I realize the irony... "reasonably priced flat in London"... dream on sista... dream on) when the fuzzy lines between dreaming and waking are interspersed with sounds from the "real world" translating over to the "dream world." No! Please let me stay here.

I'm not in London anymore - fantastically or in reality (duh). I have been though so it's not completely ridiculous that I dream of the city. I spent a mere 6 weeks in London on a study abroad with the University of Utah after which I subsequently wrote a prose heavy "research analysis" of it's "foggy lanterns piercing the rippled surface of the darkening Thames as I scurried to my hotel near the Baker's street tube stop. Dark figures glided like ghosts along pavements while a stray black cat confidently strutted across my path; the misty air glistening off its mangey fur" - oh my. Clearly someone (it's me) has transported us all back to Sir Arther Conan Doyle's Holmesian London or has been taking Virginia Wolfe far too seriously (and you know what happens when you take Virginia Wolfe a little too seriously... the misty clouds thus roll forth and you put rocks in your pockets).

Never the less - whatever Freud might say of my reoccurring London dreams having something to do with my subconscious longing to escape into a world so very different from my own (true) or my strange inherent desire to project my inner Mary Poppins (also true); I loved London and I want to go (back) to London and I believe that once I get to London again, I will be staying in London indefinitely. Perhaps London is sending these subliminal messages through my dreams, beckoning me to join it again and experience all that London is. And who am I to say no to London? Especially when it goes through the trouble of consistently invading my dreams. Dickens would never say no to London! And that's reason enough for me.