Intimacy & Envy, Amsterdam, and Theo Van Gogh

Dear friend,

I’ve taken myself on a little solo trip to Amsterdam this week, and wow — it has been exactly what the doctor ordered. I just came from the Van Gogh Museum, which I left skipping along the cobblestones to grab my tram home. Until today, I didn’t realize that Theo, his brother, was his lifelong benefactor, and I listened, completely rapt, to the letters exchanged between the two of them. I spent nearly a half hour with Emile Bernard’s pieces and letters — gazing at his soft pastel style and provocative brothel sketches.

A Woman Washing Herself (1888) Emile Bernard

My favorite exchange was when he provided Vincent with a particularly edgy/erotic painting and asked, “Please don’t show these to your brother.” I laughed out loud at the accompanying caption: “Naturally, Vincent sent them directly to Theo.” If that isn’t a sibling relationship, I’m not sure what is.

“Naturally, Vincent sent them directly to Theo.” If that isn’t a sibling relationship, I’m not sure what is.

Theo and Vincent were close confidantes, who lived together in Paris during their young adulthood and stayed in close contact. When Vincent shot himself at the age of 37, it took him two days to die, and Theo was there by his side. According to friends, his coffin was strewn with sunflowers, and Theo sobbed uncontrollably beside it. I find myself welling up at one of the last letters Theo sent Vincent, when Vincent was in the psychiatric hospital the year before his death, begging for news. One can’t help but feel the deepest sense of sympathy for Theo, who, heartbroken, succumbed to syphilis the very next year. His widow had his remains interred beside his brother, a fact that made my eyes well over. 

But enough about Van Gogh, as it is a sad story and the night is young. I am dining at a hip café in the city center called Café Binnenvisser. So far my impression of the city center is one of immense calm, comfort, and coziness (“gezellig” as they call it). Even the houseboats lined along the canal are the most luxurious I’ve ever seen – with large, welcoming windows and warm lights shining outward like beacons. The apartments lining the streets have their curtains deliberately left open, making them feel like an extension of the city, as though Amsterdam is one big living room. At night, I hear the soft chatter of laughter from dining parties and see strollers chained next to bikes. By day, the wheels of the coordinated commutes whir in an orderly and content fashion. I see bicyclists smiling, one even singing, something I note to myself I don’t recall seeing, perhaps ever in London (though I sing when I Lime bike). In London, it’s as though each commuter has the pained expression of someone running a few minutes late, whereas here, the bikers’ lazy pedaling suggests a right on-time ness. Amsterdam has the same romantic architecture as Paris, Barcelona, or London, with 25% of the chaos and smog. I know it’s often said about Amsterdam, but it can’t be said enough: the city is truly transformed by bicycles.

The apartments lining the streets have their curtains deliberately left open, making them feel like an extension of the city, as though Amsterdam is one big living room.

I am writing you this letter from the bar, where two girls are on a date beside me, their legs and hands intertwined as they listen to something on one of their phones. Their passionate cuddling and easy intimacy are nice to behold, though I feel a touch of envy. What strikes me most is the handholding, the arm touches, the soft way one thumb strokes the inside of a palm, running back and forth tracing some invisible but well-trodden path, like a neuron bouncing towards its favorite thought patterns. If envy is a habit, what is the opposite habit? Mudita, of course, the Buddhist concept of finding joy in someone else’s joy – an expansive, sympathetic joy that allows you to delight in the happiness of others. 

When one of them leaves to use the bathroom, I lean over and ask a question: “Do you two know of any cute gay bars around here?”

The girl in the cozy beanie responds, “Oh we’re actually from London, but my girlfriend lived here for three years, she’ll know!”

They spent the next hour giving me dozens of recommendations for my next few days in Amsterdam, and we laughed, bonded, and giggled across the bar top. 

It is a nice reminder that sometimes when the intimacy of the world feels the most out of reach, it is just a small gesture away: a lean across a counter, a question posed like an invitation, an answer like a waving hand welcoming you across the threshold into the warm gezellig lights of a living room. 

I hope to talk soon. Please lean across the counter if you ever feel lonely.

Love,

Halle

Walking Across London: “Cela vaut le Détour”

Halle, why are you walking across London?

At the start of the summer, I made a “Summer Bucket List Bingo Board.” I was a bit tipsy on celebratory “housewarming” champagne, and I audaciously marked my board with the tile: “Walk across London,” snuggled next to other logistically challenging tasks, like “Water Ski,” “Climb a Mountain” and “Drink Champagne on a Yacht.” I live in London, for god’s sake! Oh, and one more: “Listen to 100 Records.” (We’ll return to that later). I placed it on my wall, and there, the board hung all summer, taunting me. 

“There, the board hung all summer, taunting me.”

Recently, I was at a charity shop when I came across a book: “25 Walks by London Writers.” I perused the inside, inspired by the styles of the walks within. If I could do these walks, I would have “walked across London” in spirit!! Thus begins an ambitious new series for my London Letters: Walking Across London. 

This Friday, I found myself with an unusual boon—a completely free day, dropped on my doorstep as if from a stork, mouth spilling over with blessings. I planned to meet up with a friend to film in Hampstead Heath in the evening, so I picked the walk closest to the Heath: “A Digression with Mr. Coleridge” by writer Richard Holmes, British author and biographer of major French & British figures, including the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge, our subject on today’s walk. I snaked beneath the city on the Central and then Northern Line, minding the gap as I hopped off at Archway Station and ascended into London. 

Cela Vaut Le Detour: Digressions with Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The walk, 24th on the list, was designed to take you past various spots important to the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge and honor his “varied gait,” (William Hazlitt used to say the poet “could never walk in a straight line). In his honor, the walk purposefully evokes a discursive and wandering journey. Richard Holmes references the old Michelin Guide phrase: “cela vaut le détour,” or “it’s worth the detour” in setting up the meandering tour of Highgate Hill. 

“Cela Vaut Le Détour” seemed like an apt slogan for my time in London in general: a strange diversion from the path I was on, which garnered more than one question from my friends and family about my sanity. Yet, I’ve found that my time here has, in fact, been well worth the detour. 

The Artful Architecture of Highgate Hill 

Holmes guides me up Highgate Hill, past a cat statue dedicated to the thrice mayor of London, Duke Whittington, and the Holborn Union Building, with its black storm drains snaking up to geometric balconies strewn with brown ivy, webbed like the netting that catches acrobats when they tumble from tightropes and trapezes. 

All around me, the city streams with the 4 o’clock Friday crowd: academics and hospital workers, school children with necks craned towards their smartphones, and a man with his small dachshund hobbling on its body hung far too close to the concrete. My thighs begin to burn from the exertion, but I focus on the task at hand: How did this hill look when Samuel Taylor Coleridge climbed it in the 1800s? I imagine it free from the parked cars and Lime Bikes, the various litter and plastics sinking into the soil on the side of the street. Sometimes, despite its unforgivable faults, it’s hard not to romanticize the past. 

I pass an academy with bricks of mottled yellow and red. Concrete bows perch above the circular windows like Christmas wreaths hung on expectant doors while pigeons roost in the smoke stacks and magpies clop through the gutters. The orange bricks in the upper artifice, which form the date “1880”, tell me this academy would have just missed Coleridge. 

The red brick houses lining the street seem ancient, some with dates inscribed as early as 1887. I resolve to learn more about architecture — is this Victorian? Whatever the period, they’re stunning: dormer windows set against steep, sloping roofs, fleur de lis imposing a prominence on the skyline, clay tiles with geometric patterns reminiscent of Moroccan architecture, stained glass windows, and manicured allotments with vivid flowers, a pre-cursor to the bright, colorful doors you would knock upon. One home is nearly consumed by the ivy proliferating across the second story, jutting out in every direction like an insect’s antennae. 

The Park Like a Georges Seurat Painting 

I continue my stroll until The Lauderdale House appears on my left. I recognize the name from the guidebook, but, at this point, I’ve forgotten the historical significance. I peruse the bulletin board for clues, finding a raffle flyer for tickets to the Play That Goes Wrong or Six the Musical. Tempted, I try the front door, buzzing until I’m met by a confused doorman who seems baffled by my request for a raffle ticket. I slink around the back, thinking perhaps I can find more clues there, to find a small gravel pathway open into an oasis of a garden. 

The garden is handsome, but it's the park that extends behind it in nearly every direction that steals my breath. It’s the kind of park you imagine would be overrun with people in every direction. However, they only dot the landscape, even more reserved than the famous Georges Seurat painting, “A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte.”

It’s the kind of park you imagine would be overrun with people in every direction. However, they only dot the landscape…

I gaze up at a gargantuan holm oak, whose lackadaisical canopy drapes itself across the sky like a set of tired lovers. On the way out, I see a Sycamore stiff and stretching upright. I like that the trees are labeled here — I never know the names of trees, so I’ve taken to using my iPhone to identify them, but I much prefer the botanical signs posted throughout the garden. I make a mental note to come back here on a lazy day to lounge, read, and learn the names of more trees.

Where Coleridge “came for tea, and stayed on 18 years”

I forge upwards again, back on my path after this diversion. Cresting the hill, London feels like a different city, just as Richard Holmes said it might. The Scottish writer Thomas Carlyle described Coleridge atop the world here: 

“Coleridge sat on the brow of High Gate Hill in those years looking down on London and its smoke-tumult, like a safe, escaped the inanity of life’s battle. The practical intellects of the world did not much heed him, or carelessly reckoned him a metaphysical dreamer: but to the rising spirits of the young generation he had this dusky sublime character; and sat there as a kind of Magus, girt in mystery and enigma; his Dodona oak-grove (Mr. Gilman's house at Highgate) whispering strange things, uncertain whether oracles or jargon.” -Thomas Carlyle

I pass a beautiful bookstore, which is closed due to the hour. I briefly curse myself for starting the walk so late, but truthfully, I cannot be angry with the sun’s angle and the soft light that washes over the early evening. I turn onto South Grove into a quiet, covered neighborhood. I’m enjoying the peaceful solitude so much that I almost miss Moreton House, Coleridge’s respite, where he came to break his opium habit. It is said that “Coleridge came for tea and stayed on for 18 years.” Dr. Gillman, the owner of the house, let him lodge here and helped him to slowly break his opium habit, enjoying his company, the feverish but scintillating quality of his wandering conversations, and the increased business he brought. As repayment, Coleridge was able to break his crippling opium addiction. Cela vaut le détour indeed. 

As repayment, Coleridge was able to break his crippling opium addiction. Cela vaut le détour indeed. 

Just past the house, St. Michael’s Church stretches into the skyline, its gold-embossed teal clock ticking, just as it must have when Coleridge lived down the street at Moreton. Now, it contains his tombstone, inscribed with the words: 

Stop, Christian passer-by!—Stop, child of God,

And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod

A poet lies, or that which once seemed he.

O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.;

That he who many a year with toil of breath

Found death in life, may here find life in death!

Mercy for praise—to be forgiven for fame

He asked, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same!

A Secret Hollow by the Heath

Turning once more onto North Grove, I am now in what feels like a completely secret hollow: a small road with trees arching over it, private property signs dotting million-dollar houses, and trees bursting with spiky fruit. My feet crunch over the pebbles as I pass the house Dr. Gillman and Coleridge moved into once Moreton felt too small. 

Turning down Fitzroy Park, maneuvering past a metal gate, I watch as two skateboarders bomb the steep hill. I descend further into the sanctuary smack dab in the middle of one of the most happening parts of London. The ivy on the sides of the walk reminds me of Georgia, and I picture myself sitting on a small fortune, buying a home nestled into this quiet drive. I imagine myself rich and famous, hiding out in a house in Fitzroy Park with my manicured hydrangea bushes and electric vehicle. But enough fortunetelling. Is this walk today through the trees not enough fortune for one girl? (Makes me think of my friend Katie’s brilliant song Little Fortune). 

But enough fortunetelling. Is this walk today through the trees not enough fortune for one girl?

I come to a Lodge (which looks straight out of a fairytale), turn past the London Bowling Club (fascinating), and walk through a small gate, dropping directly into a forgotten corner of Hampstead Heath. 

A Forgotten Pocket of Hampstead Heath

Unlike the packed portions of Hampstead Heath I’ve traipsed through before on weekends and mornings, I had this section of the Heath almost entirely to myself. It felt like a prank: someone must be coming to tell me that, no, I can’t just enjoy this little corner of London all to myself. The insects buzzed, and the sun hung low in the sky while I gazed over tall grasses and branching paths, wondering which to take.

I checked the map again for my endpoint: an ironwork gazebo near Kenwood House where Coleridge would sit and enjoy the view of the city. I’m running up against the clock. My friend is meeting me in 20 minutes, and I must travel to the opposite side of this massive park (790 acres in total). But the book had gotten me this far, and I want to see my détour through to the end. 

I pass a small stream, and suddenly there are tens of people milling about: men throwing grungy tennis balls for their furry friends, couples walking hand in hand, and commuters shouldering backpacks, all ambling through the high grass. Time is ticking now, and I’m feverishly consulting Google Maps and the guidebook, trying to triangulate the gazebo's position. I circle outside the park, back inside, and through a blocked road to discover, with bubbling frustration, that the gazebo is inaccessible: private property signs bar my continuation. 

Time is ticking now, and I’m feverishly consulting Google Maps and the guidebook, trying to triangulate the gazebo's position.

Well, the guidebook was published in 2011. Just as I give up on finding it, my gaze travels upward, and Quelle surprise! In all of my fumbling about for the gazebo, I’d overlooked the remarkable view sitting just past my eye line: there, London rises in all its glory – a panoramic feast for the eyes of Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the London Eye, the BT Telecom Tower, and more, rising defiantly from the smoke-tumult. Well, that’s the thing about digressions. You often don’t end up exactly where you meant to, but the view is fabulous all the same. 

Cela vaut le détour, indeed. 

Love,

Halle

Blackberries in the Bishop Bonner

Dear Friend, 

Good morning from London! I’m writing to you on a balmy morning at the Bishop Bonner. Have I told you about my living situation yet? Well, I mentioned the record collection, but I’m unsure if I mentioned the part where I live in a pub. A pub, you ask! What in the 90s sitcom?! Well, it’s not technically still a pub, but it was once a fully operational pub, and from the outside, it looks like a dilapidated version of one. My landlords live in the pub's main part, and four artists/musicians rent on the upper floor. I, for my part, rent the stand-alone studio above the garage. Most mornings, I sit out on my balcony overlooking the Bishop Bonner, munching on my breakfast in the sun. Often, I glimpse my neighbor, an art student in his early twenties, starting his day from across the courtyard divide. 

I was sitting in the sunshine on my balcony this morning when my neighbor called out from across the way. We ended up chatting over the chasm of the courtyard, me on my sun-soaked balcony, him standing framed in the window, clinging to the roof like a sailor leaning from a mast with the French press settled by his feet. He joked about how this morning we were shirking “rise and grind” for “rise and recline” — something I am officially adopting as a life motto. 

He invited me for coffee and fresh blackberries from his family’s garden in Southhampton, and I told him all about Ireland with Robyn and Daniel. I sipped my French Press with the oat milk I brought from my flat (so American) and enjoyed having a lazy morning, as he showed me pictures of old zippers from an antique book.

It is my first day back with the living, as I spent the last 7 days purging every last thing that entered my stomach. For context, I picked up some sort of bacteria/parasite/protozoa in Ireland and, since returning, have been almost deathly ill. My poor parents came to visit and tour London with me, only to find me married to my bathroom and stumbling around in a half-alive haze. They were sorely disappointed that I couldn’t hang out with them as much as I intended, as was I! But at least they enjoyed the nice dinner reservations I made, albeit without me. 

We all traveled up to the Cotswolds, bringing along my friend Sara, where we stayed in an unbelievably gorgeous farmhouse cottage. Unfortunately, I spent most of the trip lying in bed ill. I kept thinking it would abate soon, but it took a full six days to start to feel better. My poor family! By day 5, I began to come back to life, my brain wiggling its toes and fingers, the haze lifting. My mom kept saying it was as if I had a personality again. Cue that one Kardashians clip —“I’m getting my personality back!” A good reminder that health truly is the foundation for every enjoyment, precious time with loved ones included.

Once I was back to life, we could enjoy dinner, Hamilton, and even a goodbye cocktail — a strange but delicious combination of champagne and whiskey from the fancy-schmancy hotel bar. Another important reminder: things do run their course eventually. Cue that old country song I used to love: every storm runs out of rain. This week, a bit of hard work is in order as I’m prepping to release “Let Yourself Out,” one of the songs I am most excited about from the Forever From You album project. 

In the meantime, have you watched the Messy Hot Girl Summer music video? I would love to hear what you think. 

I promise to write soon. 

Much love from London, 

Halle

Stay away from red-haired mary

August 10th, 2024 

Dear friend,

I’m sending you my love on the train back from Thurles to Dublin — now if you’re reading this as an American, you probably said TH-urles, but I want you to make sure to read it like a real Irish person, drop the H and say “T-urles.” The lilt of the Irish accent is ringing in my ears. I like how they drop their THs — for example, it would be quarter to tree, not quarter to three. The Irish countryside passes by my window in a blur of verdant green, and I have trouble believing I was only here for 5 days.

I started writing this letter in Tipperary, Ireland, where I sit tapping away in the kitchen, a ham slow roasting in the range and Alison Krauss and Robert Platt crooning from the stereo on an album recorded in Nashville, Tennessee — “Raising Sand.”

The Wednesday night before, I kicked out of London with my landlords Robyn & Daniel, their 16-year-old son Barny (my latest gigging bass player), and their adorable 10-year-old beagle Missy.  Suzi Quatro blasted from the CD player, and everything became lighter and brighter the further we seemed to get away from London. We made it onto the ferry in a few short hours: the Ryan Air of the sea, Robyn and Daniel not-so-lovingly gripe. The woes and money-grabbing vices of the ferry are lamented nearly the whole ride — the fluorescent lights beaming on us from above. I, for one, throw my shorts over my eyes and sleep the entire ferry ride, completely unbothered by whatever pernicious capitalism is at work.

On the way out from the ferry, Robyn and Daniel are ecstatic that we are stopped by customs, and I get a stamp in my passport. It’s like Christmas morning—“They don’t give these out to just anybody!” I suppose I will now have to cherish that stamp in my passport! 

We spent the first day readying the house. As it hadn’t been opened in a while, Robyn & Daniel primarily residing in London, it had to be aired out, the range turned on, the laundry done, the toilet fixed, the freezer installed, and the bar cleared out. I went up to work for a few hours, and by the time I’d come down there was music on the stereo and gin and tonics being poured. It was suddenly the picture of a country house — walking outside the soft warm light of 6 pm hit the wheat growing up from the backyard. Missy bounded through the grass, running like a puppy, as Barney threw some toy her way. In Ireland, even the dog is attributed anti-English sentiments, thought to be far happier for being in Ireland than in London. Looking at the dog, I have to agree. We’re called in as fish and chips are served from the stove with Robyn’s homemade tartar sauce: mayo and gherkins.

We sit down and dig in hungrily. Barny shouted to Daniel to pass the Malt Vinegar, which he drowns his fish and chips in. I say, “I’ve never had malt vinegar,” and Barny turns to me, with his posh English accent, and says: “How uncultured ARE you?” Very Draco Malfoy from Harry Potter cadence and intonation. I said, “Very, but not knowing what malt vinegar is is the least of my problems.”

That night, Barny stayed in for a rest while we went off the the “Mill,” which is pretty famous around these parts and, in my opinion, might be famous the world over if people knew just what was going on every Thursday night in this little house in Tipperary. We walked into the house to find a proper pub bar, complete with a red laminated bar top, stacked to the 9s with pint glasses, proper taps for Guinness, and 50 or so people bustling around the small space — “How are you Robyn?” “Daniel, ah there you are.” “Halle, you’ve got to meet Jim’s girls — there, behind the bar, Greta, Anya, Erin.” “Through this door, yes, Daniel will grab the drinks.” Elbows jostle, glasses clink, and the hum of some Irish song travels under the door by the wood stove. Jim’s girls, aforementioned, are busy filling pints and passing them around, as Robyn explains to me — “Oh Anya, she’s a playwright, Erin, she’s studying politics, Greta — she’s one of the best musicians you’ll hear tonight.”

I’m shuffled through the bar into a back room, which Robyn says is where all the real traditional folk happens and tends to peter out earlier in the night, so I knew I wanted to be there first. The room is stuffed with about 50 people aged 20 - 85, my best guess. Everyone is enraptured, completely attentive, and present with the song being sung as we walk in. The guitar on my back draws quick attention to me, and not a moment after I’m sitting down I’m entreated for a song. “Is it OK to play my own?” Nods of assent from around the room — they couldn’t be more thrilled actually. I’m terrified as I break into Backyard and the Birds. There’s a loud accordion coming from the room next door, so I can hardly hear myself. I wonder if I should stop and wait for the accordion to pass, but I soldier on, making it through. They applaud kindly, and before too long, it’s someone else’s turn in the spotlight: we get a rebel song from a Basque girl who sings acapella while pounding a drum. Then, my favorite folk song of the night: “Stay away from red-haired Mary”! Every single person in the room is pounding their feet on the floor and singing:

Stay away from red-haired Mary

She and I are soon to be wed

We’ll see the preacher in the morning

and tonight we’ll lie in the marriage bed…

My talent for picking up a tune in one listen has never been more useful — it’s as though my life talents have just been lying in wait for Ireland. I’m singing heartily by verse 5 or 6, when the chorus devolves into — forget the preacher til the morning, tonight we’ll lie in Murphy’s shed. Everyone is laughing, shouting, clinking their Guinesses, and clapping along by the end.

After Red Haired Mary peters out, there’s a rebel song, sung acapella in a beautiful baritone by a man called Tom in his 80s. I don’t remember the words, but I remember the heart of it — “fuck the British army,” intermingled with, of course, a deep sense of resilience, pride, and community felt by the Irish. 

Then, a woman, probably in her 60s, with pretty brown hair is asked to sing Mary Black. “I already did that one,” she protests, but to no avail — “Well, do it again!” Her reticence abates, and she begins to sing in a crisp, clear soprano. By the time we get to the chorus, everyone in the room has joined in, voices melding into one: 

“But let me tell you that I love you, that I think about you all the time

Caledonia, you're calling me, and now I'm going home

But if I should become a stranger, you know that it would make me more than sad

Caledonia's been everything I've ever had”

I have chills running up and down my arm by the second verse, which seems written just for me: 

“I have moved, and I've kept on moving, proved the points that I needed proving

Lost the friends that I needed losing, found others on the way

I have kissed the lads and left them crying, stolen dreams, yes there's no denying

I have traveled hard, sometimes with conscience flying somewhere with the wind”

I heard this song five times during my weekend in Ireland, live and sung by a crowd of people — goosebumps rising on my arm every time.

At some point, some Irish lad comes up to me (notice I’ve said “lad” now; I’m officially assimilated) asking if I can bring my guitar out to the barn, where there’s some singer in need of one. I follow along. It's a bit sad to leave the trad folk room, but I end up performing a few more Halle Payne originals for about 40 other folks in the barn, as big as any show I’ve had in London of late. I get them singing along to “Come Back to the Music,” voices resounding through the backyard barn.

When I finally make it to the piano room (a THIRD space), I’m shocked that there are even more incredible musicians in one small town in rural Ireland, but alas, expect the unexpected! After listening to some incredible renditions of Eagles songs, a tall man with his back against the wall leans forward: “Will you play Fifth Limb?” I’m shocked — he had heard it in the trad folk room and remembered and liked it enough to want to hear it again. I, of course, oblige him, playing Backyard and the Birds, too. An insanely talented guitar player joins in and makes my night by geeking out over the Backyard and the Bird's chord progression. A musician's wet dream! 

We end up being the last ones there, treated to a cup of tea by Jim and getting some time to chat with a couple of his daughters. I practically drag Robyn from the house, exhausted from all the day's magic. I go to bed the minute my head hits the pillow, feeling like this trip to Ireland has been some strange fever dream.

There is much more to tell — this was only my first night if you can believe it! But for now, “let me tell you that I love you, and I miss you all the time.” Maybe shoot me a real letter or call me to hear the rest.

Much love from London,

Halle

A Flat Full of Records and a Foot Full of Glass

June 2nd, 2024

Dear Friend,

I awoke around 5:20 am, or at least I think around then. The clock on the oven was blinking 3:50 am, and I’ve determined it to be about 80 minutes off. I spent some of the morning reading (“The Assassin’s Apprentice,” brilliantly good) and attempting in vein to close my eyes until 7 am rolled around and I concluded that it was time to get up. I <3 Jet Lag!

The light in the apartment (*cough* my new flat) is stunning in the morning, and the place is almost eerily peaceful. I saw the rusted red tea pot full of last night’s fresh mint, and it looked so lovely that I almost thought “I might become a morning tea-drinker”… right as I grabbed my purse to head out in search of a latte.

A Friendship Fairytale

My flat is finally looking somewhat liveable. I spent yesterday moving in and organizing with the help of Robyn (my magical new landlady) and three friends: Richard, Margaux, and Meghana. Each was unbelievably kind: Robyn driving me across London to fetch my suitcases from Lex’s, Richard & Margaux lifting fridges and hanging clothes quietly smiling, and Meghana, the absolute #1 champion & at this point more a resident of the loft than me: she got the rug settled up in there and remade the bed (that’s twice now in 3 days). What’s more, Richard actually texted me to see if he and Margaux could help with the moving, not the other way around. I mean, that’s the stuff of friendship fairytales! 

How many records could a record store have if a vinyl store record store would?

We also tackled the fridge, whose icebox was, dare I say, an actual glacier. Whatever was going on in there should be studied by glacial scientists to stop the melt. Or I suppose, based on data about refrigerant being the worst climate change culprit, the glaciers are melting BECAUSE they are now inside my refrigerator. Meghana, Robyn, and I chipped ice out of the frosted-over freezer into a big blue bucket. Well, I did nothing. I’m in surgery recovery mode still, and no one will let me move. 

The Glass In My Foot

And, well, that night was a bit funny. It wouldn’t be the first night in my new apartment if I didn’t shatter a fabulously shatterable mug at 1 am with no dustpan or broom on the premises. I tried to swiffer up the glass (10/10 do not recommend swiffering up glass) and went to bed resigned with it mostly in a pile by the edge of the kitchen. Unsurprisingly to anyone, this strategy was not that good, and the next afternoon, I completely forgot, walked barefoot across the kitchen, and ended up with a sharp sliver of glass in my foot. I unsuccessfully tried to pull it out with tweezers and hobbled around it until that evening, when Robyn was determined to help me remove the shard. 

She pulled out a red basin filled with water and suds, clicking the kettle with her right hand as she instructed me to put my foot in the small tub. When the kettle was ready, we began our funny basin soak dance: “nudge your foot a little to the left,” (pours boiling water in the right), “stir,” now move it right (pours boiling water in the left), etc. The soapy water was scalding, but Robin rebuked me whenever I tried to remove my foot: “Oh, it’s not that hot,” she tsked as she tested the water with her hand. 

Glass in foot, wine in glass

Robin grew up on a farm and knows the trick to everything due to, as she calls it, growing up on “country living.” She puts on a southern accent sometimes when she says this, which isn’t half bad seeing as she did spend some time in South Carolina in her 20s, though her pronounced Irish accent mingled in with the southern impression does sound decidedly silly.

Anyway, we’re sudsing my foot and Robyn is pouring the wine. As she stands by the sink washing some dishes, I note her sparkling shoes and compliment her: “I like the diamonds on the souls of your shoes,” I say. She gasps, “That’s my second favorite song of all time!” I later asked about the first, but now I’ve forgotten what it was. 

She’s got diamonds on the soles of her shoes!

I put Diamonds on the Souls of Her Shoes on the Bluetooth speaker on the kitchen table: Robyn makes me promise not to tell Daniel — in a house full of the best speaker equipment and vinyl systems of all time, we are bluetoothing Spotify. But it does the trick. Paul Simon comes on in his merry way “She’s a rich girl, she don’t try to hide it,” and Robyn dances magnificently through the kitchen while I chair dance with my foot in the bath. 

We spend the next hour drinking copious amounts of white wine and bonding over our shared love of Joni Mitchell, even pulling out a guitar and singing “The Circle Game” in questionable harmony. 

Every 10 minutes or so, we try to remove the glass with the tweezers, and if it’s not coming out, she’ll say, OK another round: kettle, pour, foot move, pour, foot move, sit, etc. At one point, she goes: I have a magnifying glass! So there we are, drunk as skunks, looking at my foot through a magnifying glass, pulling at this shard of glass with tweezers. We think we get it; I stand later and feel it again; we repeat the whole fucking affair. 

It’s a hilarious evening, and I end up going to bed at 3 am or so, finally shard-less and much drunker than I was a few hours before. 

But anyway, that was Friday, and today is Sunday, a brand new day! 

Semblance of Order

The place is finally coming into a semblance of order and even coziness. It feels like me: the soft wooden desk, the candelabras, the jewelry tree Robyn lent me hanging with all of my mom’s hand-me-down necklaces, the Guatemalan bird tapestries I’ve dragged to 5 different homes this year. 

Aside: I did the math and realized I have moved five times since last March. Someone is going to have to drag me out of this place kicking and screaming! 

I’ve organized my desk in a bit of an ingenious way I think: it’s a blank slate, but the dresser next to it has a drawer for work set up and a drawer for music set up, so I can transition between the two seamlessly. We’ll see if I end up wanting to have a more SET music space, but for now, I think this works pretty well. Tight quarters! 

Moving five times in the last year (one international) has certainly not been ideal, but I will say I have gotten better at it each time. I have adopted a very specific system and a kind of hardened minimalism that relies on ruthless purging. 

What makes me most glad about this place is the kind of belongings that I sincerely want, a nice record player, stereo system, and record collection, came built-in with the place! 

Settling In

And I am so delighted by the simplest things about settling: I seem to exhale as I unpack my clothes into a large French Dresser, organize my desk cables into permanent positions, create a little makeup station by the window (the best morning light), and finally chuck my suitcases into storage. I even get a kick out of hanging the dustpan and the Swiffer by the door, perfectly aligned on Command Hooks, and perfectly coiling my guitar cables and hanging them in good order. Even setting my books on the bookshelf gives me a sense of delight and satisfaction. 

I’m HOME, it all seems to scream. 

While there is still much to do in terms of settling (mostly art, plants, and lighting, which I’ve learned from the best – the fabulous Maddie Bouton – make the biggest difference of all). Especially the loft, which at the moment is still a bit, well, rough. I would like to make it feel cozy and well-decorated. 

When Daniel (Robyn’s husband/my landlord) gets back from Ireland on Tuesday, he is going to fix up the speakers so I can listen to music, and I think that will do big things as well. 

So, surgery recovery is happening, slowly but surely (I started Physical therapy on the 10th), and despite some continued pain, I am settling back into London.

The record is in the mixing stage, and I can’t wait to have that to share with you soon. 

Sincerely,

Halle Payne