Hello. Hiya.

Since this is my first Lifestyle post in quite a little while, allow me to re-introduce myself.

I’m Yari, an American girl who’s been living in London for the last 19 years. But even as I put that down in words, I can almost hardly believe it. That’s nearly 7,000 days of this Little Life that I’ve spent in Blighty. And boy — I’ve come quite some way from that starry-eyed twenty-something, bursting with the boldness and big dreams of a recent MsC grad, and the lack of life experience that goes with it.

Little did younger Yari know that she would go on to build an entire life, her entire world, in the Big Smoke. Buy her dream flat along Hackney’s marshes, feel more at ease saying “loo” instead of ‘restroom” and have such a strong pov on the great ‘milk before tea / tea before milk’ divide. (If you’re wondering: it’s always been Earl Grey, steeped at 98C, with the milk poured before the tea.)

Of course, when I reflect back on it all now, it was never going to be anywhere else. When I finished my studies, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving London with so many (cobble)stones left unturned. I took the first job I could, and extended my British visa by an extra couple years. Soon enough, good friends still Stateside started asking questions. When are you moving back home? “Before 30,” I said. “When it’s time to settle down.” With all the assuredness of youth.

Thirty came. And thirty went.

And then — as one does — I fell in love with a British boy. Two in fact. Each came. Each went. But through the heart-tugs and heartbreaks, London was always my constant. Even as I bounced around, from West to North and then finally planting my feet East. The city was there for all of it: the unnecessary ‘one-for-the-road’ pints, the regularly rain-soaked shoes, too-many-to-count broken umbrellas, frow seats on the 55, spindly sprints for the last tube. It quietly partook in my big transitions: graduating from night buses to pre-booked aiport ubers, from heels to flats, from a small pink Razr to the first iphone, from not knowing what to order at Cafe Nero to my regular oat flat whites at Millfields. From always picking the cheapest bottle on the menu (“we’ll take whatever the house red is”) to knowing the difference between a Nebbiolo and a Nero D’avola.

London. Always calm, always carrying on.

At one point, we went on a break. I went backpacking to heal my heartache, but absence only made my heart grow fonder. So when I touched down back in London, and into that familiar balmy British summertime air, it finally hit me that the city itself has always been my greatest love affair.

And so I stayed. Through fertility testing and fear of that ticking timebomb — the female biological clock. And then for the formation of life beyond it. Through those long and lonely early days of (yet another) breakup. Through friendship heartbreak — and 10 years later, a surprise repair. Through breaking news from Boris, and the multiple lockdowns that followed. Searching for the last loo roll in the corner Co-op, and clapping for our NHS carers every single Thursday. A cancelled Christmas. Through a destabilising bout of labyrinthitis, when Homerton Hospital became the most frequented destination on my taxi app. Through a tumour that showed signs of abnormal cells. And the follow-up MRIs that confirmed the all clear.

But let’s not forget all the magic beyond London’s edges: fossil-hunting on the Jurassic Coast, whilst tipsy off English sparkling wine. Durdle Door, sparkling in surprise sunshine. Dripping wet, but joyful and in love, at the top of Mam Tor. Two girlfriends hitchhiking on the Isle of Skye and celebrating a safe return with a hearty shot of Talisker. Spilling my IPA whilst dancing at a Glaswegian university gig. Recording live on the BBC, on the big red sofa in Manchester. Foolishly not lining my stomach ahead of a British countryside wedding. An exclusive BTS tour of a rare books collection, by a friendly Geordie met on the streets of Newcastle. My first ever AirBnB, at the home of a retired curmudgeonly West End actor in Oxfordshire.

I could keep going. But I don’t think a long(er) list of my core mems is what you bargained for.

Plus, the best core memories are those big milestones we universally celebrate, right? Marriage! A baby! Our first family home!

But what happens for those of us who haven’t had m(any)? What happens when your longest lasting relationship has been with a city, not a man?

If I look back on my own evolution, this all tracks. In my teens, I had this reoccurring vision of my future self: I’m driving solo, down a windy, mountainous road in Italy, in a cool convertible car, wearing an even cooler scarf and shades. It was never the white dress. And though I’ve had moments where I’ve felt a tug towards a more traditional life, they were never strong enough to stop me from booking a solo safari whilst in a serious relationship, buying a one-way ticket to freedom — er Brazil — or from building a permanent home, all on my own, in my new chosen homeland.

And so now, we’re here. This week, I hit one of the biggest milestones of my life. My dream of becoming a global citizen has finally come to fruition. I am now the (hugely) proud owner of two passports. And whilst there may not be an off-the-shelf card in Scribblr for dual nationality, I will damn well be celebrating.

A toast to nearly two decades of hard work (and all the countless visas, and money) to get here. A toast with London, the love of my life. And a toast to all those women who sit at society’s edges, who have yet (or may never) celebrate its biggest known markers. Let’s honour each other, and each and every one of our unique milestones. And say salud, prost, chin chin and cheers to many, many more.

Forty-something London gal becomes British Citizen