I was supposed to meet Eddie at his student residence; I typed in the wrong address; we agreed to meet at a Tesco midway; he typed in the wrong Tesco; we met in the original Tesco after he rented a bike to get there; for which I compensated him with a protein yogurt snack. We spent the walk laughing — at what, I struggle to remember; for it was one of those walks. Oddly, much of what I remember from London relates to food — not because the food was good enough to change or define the experience (the British stereotype may not hold true, but is worth mentioning in case you, dear reader, believes it does), but because the experience invariably related to food in some way. I'll remember the 40 pound — in two senses — McDonalds orders, the Gregg's sausage rolls, Morley's, the KFC bike rides, and of course, the Tesco meal deals. I'll remember the coffee I had with a French family while Eddie worked on his essay; the burrata Ben and I split; the not-so but very-much-so-for-my-sensitive-slash-weak-tolerance spicy hotpot my first ever friend and I caught up over (we met in grade one, we split ways in grade three, we didn't speak for a decade afterwards — with only an Instagram DM saying "hey, I'll be in London next week" breaking the silence). On my last day in London, Eddie and I were rushing to the train station — we had missed one flight in the trip already — and while we both wanted to sit, to share one last meal or coffee together, as we had done in Howth, in Dublin, in London, time seemed to press at our backs, and there was no Tesco in sight. And so, I left to Zurich.