“Did somebody drop this harmonica?” someone shouts in the security lineup.
“I did!” my dad calls back.

A much-needed moment of hilarity amidst the stress and chaos of family travel. The last time the four of us went on a big trip together, I was eight and my sister was one. We spent three months in South India. This time, it’s Europe.

I’d be lying if I said the lead-up to a trip doesn’t make me a sentimental sap. Walking through my neighborhood before we left, I caught myself admiring the trees, the birds, and my favorite bakeries like I’d never see them again. This always happens before I leave the city. I knew the hardest goodbye would be Malcolm, my boyfriend of nearly five years, who I haven’t spent more than a week apart from in all that time. I was right. When he dropped us off at the airport, I kissed him goodbye, shed a tear, then said, “See you in Paris,” which quickly lifted my spirits. He waved to us all, and we were off.

Aside from some light turbulence, the flight was uneventful, exactly what you’d want. I couldn’t get Anxiety by Doechii out of my head. I always get anxious leading up to flying, but once I’m in the air, I’m fine.
Dinner was a mixed bag. I nearly broke a nail trying to tear the roll in half. The butter was real. The pasta salad, inedible. The Merlot was fine, made me sleepy. The dessert made me excited for Paris. I dozed for an hour, read for a bit, then switched to Bridget Jones’s Diary: a classic.

At one point, my mom pulled out a bar of dark chocolate that had to have been at least a foot long and broke off a piece right on the tray table. Phoebe and I lost it, gasping for air. Another moment of hilarity… or maybe exhaustion.

We arrived at our flat around midday, and the real challenge began, staying awake.

We ventured out to orient ourselves in the neighbourhood. We picked a spot that gives us easy access to the tube without being too central, crowded, or noisy. We found a lovely coffee shop, then grabbed groceries and wine for dinner. I joked that this trip will take us on a journey of pasta; from its worst (the airplane) to its best (Italy).

Our jet lag showed up in all the classic ways, plus a bit of short-temperedness with each other. We oscillated between tense silence and uncontrollable laughter with tears running down our cheeks. Coffee and sunshine helped mellow things out.

We made dinner at the flat, then wandered over to the park across the street to read in the sun. I’m currently devouring Piglet by Lottie Hazell, and both of my parents are reading books they borrowed from me: my dad’s reading The Art Thief by Michael Finkel and my mom is reading Power Shift (The Massey Lectures) by Sally Armstrong. Back at the apartment, I made it to 9 p.m. before a chapter lulled me to sleep, eyes refusing to stay open.

This morning, we set out with no plan. Over coffee, I said, “I know the way to Notting Hill” forgetting entirely that it was Saturday. An hour later, we were shoulder to shoulder with what felt like all of London: people hunting for food, vintage gems, or the bookstore from the movie Notting Hill.

In scenes like that, I find it hard to make clear decisions. The noise, smells, and colours overwhelm me. I either buy too many things that don’t feel like me, or I’m too careful and end up with nothing. Today was the latter. But I’m not upset, I packed light, just a carry-on, and left room for a few thoughtful additions. I’d love to find a perfect spring coat, a pair of wool trousers, and, as always, a massive stash of postcards.

My dad decided he needed his first London beer, and I’ll never say no to a spritz. Over drinks, I suggested we walk to the gardens at Kensington Palace. We did and then kept walking, all the way to Big Ben. That’s when we realized it was 5 p.m., and all we’d eaten since morning was ice cream in Hyde Park. We were collectively hangry. We rushed for the tube passing the national gallery (one of my favourites) and made a pact to return in a few days.

On the way, we spontaneously caught the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. Maybe controversial, but I found it crowded, overrated, and kind of boring. As always, the gardens and sculptures were my favorite part.

Over 25,000 steps later, we’re slightly less jet-lagged and hungry for what’s to come. My feet are sore, my body still unsure when to sleep or be alert. But we all like each other again, and our fridge is stocked. I’m so excited for the galleries we’ll see over the next few days—and to finally track down a proper full English breakfast.