As I exit the airport and wait for my shuttle into the city, nothing feels all that different yet.  The moment I enter the shuttle where an aggressive black elderly man is nonsensically instructing us on where to sit, I begin to stereotype New Yorkers, but quickly remember that Londoners have a rather foul reputation, although I seldom met one that I didn't think was polite, helpful, and yes, friendly even.  And so I quickly withdraw my judgement.

We enter Manhattan from Queens and slowly the skyscrapers begin to rise before our very eyes.  And I want to cry.  The roads are enormous, and there are unnecessarily too many SUV's on the street, and I want to cry.  I want to cry for my Georgian and Victorian buildings of my London, for the airport shuttle from Heathrow that follows the route through Kensington and Knightsbridge, where in the evening one can see Harrods brightly lit up with fairy lights, and where we pass Harvey Nichols on our right, and up we go through Picadilly Circus where I see the Pigalle Club on my left with its jazzy feel, and pink couches.  I quickly snap out of it.  I am back in America, in the land of plenty, in the land of opulence and over-indulgence and waste.  And I remember how over-whelmed I felt when I moved to this land 6 and a half years ago.  And I reflect upon how I learnt to nonetheless love this place, and to appreciate all that it has going for it.

And yet later that evening as I walk through the East Village and Tribeca, and I see the Chinese grocers attempting to rid themselves of the last fresh produce of the day, which lines the sides of the streets in abundance, I wonder how much one place can really need.  I wonder where all the left-overs go.  And then I suddenly find myself being caught  somewhere between being the British snob, turning up my nose at the excessive America, and the African whose mouth is gaping open in a sort of cultural shock when seeing the land of plenty for the very first time.
I never expected the 14 months that I have been gone to put such a rift between me and this country.  I have spent the past few months lapping up all that I could with regards to the approaching election, understanding just how vital November 4th will be for the world at large.  And yet here I am, suffering election overkill, wanting the 4th to come and go, and finding it difficult to be involved in, and participate in the political excitement that this country has so lacked in previous years.

I imagine that I will quickly overcome these feelings.  I imagine that these feelings are what they call "culture shock."  Perhaps even more of a shock because I didn't anticipated it.   And while I am soaking up precious time with special friends, I find myself pining for the politeness of the Brits, for the underground in which people stand to the right on the escalators so that those that wish to pass may walk down the left side, for the random shops dedicated solely to the sale of top hats and walking sticks, for Cadbury's chocolate, for Mature Cheddar and Pret Pickle sandwiches, for Oyster cards, for cobbled streets, for finely manicured British parks and gardens, and for my friends who stand alone outside of Goodenough College smoking a cigarette and reminiscing about a year gone by during which time they were joined by a dozen others...

Indeed, as Samuel Johnson put it "when a man tires of London, he tires of life, for there is in London all that life can afford."  But now it is time for a new chapter, far from the rainy, grey and wonderfully proper embrace of London.  And so I try to find more steady footing in the familiar but foreign America that seems to have gobbled me up, at least for the time being.

And as I walk through the streets of China Town, my fingers clutching a little glass bottle filled with glitter in my pocket, a present from David, "London in a bottle", I think of my little Israeli friend Hagai, and instead of criticizing the abundance, I take a few seconds be grateful for and to meditate on the plenitude with which I am blessed.