Week 13 Impressions by Katie Burnett

It is 5:00 in the afternoon and the sun is till high. I have just returned from a weekend in Edinburgh and my body feels heavy from the 6-hour train ride, suite style hostel and the Guinness I drank, but I cannot possibly waste this beautiful London afternoon indoors. As I stare longingly outside my flat window, I suddenly ignore my tired body and feel my heart start to pound. Seeing the window of opportunity, I immediately throw on my running shoes, quickly skip down the steps of Metrogate and fly out the front door. My feet start moving at a surprising pace; soon making a quick left onto Queen’s Gate Road I find myself entering the magical land of Hyde Park, eager to lose myself in its enormousness and its convoluted pathways.

As I cross the street, my feet continue to pound. I turn to the right after passing beneath the gated entrance and am immediately blinded by the afternoon sun’s reflection off the Albert memorial. The impressive golden monument stands tall, looming over the young boys playing roller hockey at its base and providing shade for the young lovers lying on the grass pastures to its left.

The sound of slapping sticks pinches my ears so I dodge the puck and move forward. I cross the street leaving Kensington gardens behind me, passing the Diana memorial and its dangerously toxic water, and begin weaving through the pedestrians like a downhill skier on ice. My head starts to pound and my heart continues to race. However, my feet propel forward; there is no stopping in sight.

Next thing I know I am running alongside the lake. Paddleboats contaminate the tranquil waters, but the subtle laughter of children and their splashing about puts me at ease. I continue to surge forward.

Like most sunny days here in London, the park is filled with friends, children, and young lovers. Many of them are walking hand in hand, while scarfing down ice cream cones and popsicles from the overpriced truck that is parked outside the entrance. I pass them all, for my feet do not stop. Cell phone talkers, dog walkers, tourist photographers, Hyde Park attracts them all. It is now 5:20 and I watch as I pass those packing up to return home, wherever that may be.

Me however, I feel as though I am home. Instead of rounding the lake, I return to the running path. My run is my meditation, my own personal afternoon fix. The wind begins to pick up and its song overrides the chattering of voices that soon become distant whisper. Leaves begin to circulate into miniature tornados and dust begins to fly but my feet continue to surge forward.

I squint my eyes to avoid dust and stray from the common running path running along the outskirts of the park and instead pave my own road. I pass through the parks belly. I pass football games left and right—men mostly, but a few women players appear. I think about the man who laughed when I told him I play football, I begin to run faster. I pass a young girl and her dad playing Frisbee with their dog. A surge of nostalgia runs through me but my feet dance onward.

The wind subsides and but the sun remains. I feel sweat begin to trickle down to my cheeks, cold against my hot skin. I continue to move forward. My arms begin to pick up as my legs begin to tire. Pumping left then right then left my body compensates for the rest. I stop at a water fountain to quench my thirst. I see kids frolicking in the fields, their parents watching at a safe distance while engaging in their social outings.

I am now back at the Kensington Gardens entrance. It is 5:45 and I should head back. I wipe the sweat from my temples and run my hand through my jumbled ponytail, knotted from the wind. I slow my pace to a walk and await the individual signal from the oncoming traffic, indicating I can pass. A black cab slows to a stop and I cross over into the garden where we first began our tour in London. I walk by the same lake I walked by on January 9th at group orientation and have since passed countless times during my afternoon walks. This time was different, though. This time I am overwhelmed with a melancholy longing for more time in London. Two weeks is all I have left here. Two weeks is far from enough time.

My feet begin to move again, faster and faster. I run through the rest of Kensington Gardens, across High Street Kensington, and back into Metrogate. It is 6 pm and the run is over, my meditation has come to an end, back to reality. Two weeks, 14 days, 336 hours is all I have left in London. But deep down I know I will return again and my feet will be reunited with the pathways that decorate Hyde Park. I will again get lost in the metropolitan sanctuary.