It is that time of the year when the sun does not respect the clock. Almost 7:40 am and it feels that the night has just started. The moment I walk away from the glass doorway, I feel London’s wetness embracing me – it is a surprise every time. Nonetheless, I continue my journey into a small alley that is artificially formed between my building and a construction site. Written on the walls: “We design beautiful living spaces” and pictures of a mini-Hyde park to be ready in the middle of East London by 2020. Ironically, they contrast with the unfinished reality of dusty little walkways that trap us Londoners into a mouse-like maze.

I pass through Amber, a place with exquisitely finished hipster design that, nevertheless, fails to give any character to the restaurant. At this time of the day, the only clients are the shadows, which propels the baker to heat up the oven in an attempt to seduce costumers from the streets with freshly baked bread. Sitting by the side, a young worker, aged by the years building “beautiful living spaces”; he takes a break enjoying the smell, now a mixture of cigar and wheat. It is only about thirty seconds since I began my journey, but the multitude of senses living in London overwhelms me, and I feel like several minutes have passed. I increase my pace.

The wetness I felt increases into a drizzle that blankets me, so light that you can only see it under street lamps, and so soft that you can only feel it where the skin is bare. However, it does not fail in making my 1900’s Edwardian style overcoat wet, which increases its weight over my awakening body, dragging me down.  Hopefully, I am near the finish line: I turn into a wider alley that ends on a street named Allie.

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