London

It is a walking city, and not one where the title is contrived. Walking is natural the pace. At night, Harrod's sparkles, and the tree are filled with lights. The double-decker busses and telephone booths really are bright red. Big Ben stands behind parliament (when viewed from across the Thames), proud and strong. And though I did not see Peter Pan flying around his glowing face and on toward the second star to the right, I did see Susan from Narnia at a performance of King Lear just the other night. She's....shorter than I expected. People are pleasant though foreign accents are more common than native ones. The buildings are a mingling of silver and gold, old and new with Starbucks and Pret A Manger implanted in the bottom of Victorian architecture. Small and simple things are beautiful: park benches with wrought iron arms shaped like Greek goddesses, crown moldings in dorm rooms, red steel mailboxes (post boxes, as they say here) molded with regal designs. 

Children are my favorite part of the city. They are proper and British, and I have yet to see any gaudy princess outfits or light-up sneakers (trainers, as they say here). Little girls wear knee socks and Madeline hats, jumpers and dresses and walk with their fashionable mums to school, chirping as they go. The Victorians believed childhood was an age of innocence distinct from adulthood, a novel concept given earlier beliefs children were merely miniature adults. London still carries that mentality and makes itself a safe place for children and families, a clean, nurturing place rife with parks, museums, green grass and green trees. 

As enchanting as this city is, it is still foreign. Yogurt (yoghurt, as it's spelled here) and milk taste different. Restrooms are referred to as "toilets," one of the few words in the British vernacular I find grimier than its American equivalent, and hold actual toilets from the Stone Age. It is assumed that coffee is for staying in (for here) and must specifically be requested as take away (to go). And people do not run. The odd runner, though not entirely shunned, is out of place and markedly noticed in his/her obtrusiveness. I run. I'm a runner, I go running. Though I was able to run along the Thames without too much fanfare, I was accompanied largely by bikers and pedestrians. My impropriety was most pronounced in the Lake District, when I tried to run along paths which were clearly labelled "Walkers Welcome." It was similar to the moment in the movie Inception when the subconscious becomes aware of an intruder and all fictitious characters populating the dream look directly at said intruder. Everyone I passed looked at me. Directly, unabashedly, convictingly. I was an intruder, an indecorous interloper. Many eyes, along with the grandeur of the place, broke my persistence and humbled me into a walker. 

Alright London, have it your way. I will slow to your pace, taking the time to be classy and kempt as you are, noticing your idiosyncrasies and neatly tied loose ends, sitting to drink my chai instead of always getting it take away. I will walk. You are, after all, a walking city. 

See also: http://www.flickr.com/photos/85767356@N07/