The spell of elsewhere
We don’t fall in love with places, we fall in love with who we think we’ll be.
Illustration by: (Hannah Arabella Gabling // The Underground)
She’s from Toronto, she thinks in Celsius.
She spells “favourite” with a u, grew up on Tim Hortons, but she always preferred the idea of a proper London café. Afternoon tea, REAL biscuits, grey skies that feel poetic rather than suffocating. She wants to sit by a fogged up window at the Oxford Library, reading Jane Austen, the world silent in a way Yonge Street never feels.
He’s from London, he thinks in millimetres.
He owns a Canada Goose jacket, even though he's never left the United Kingdom. He has an album in his camera roll full of pictures of lakes he can’t name and imagines himself in a canoe despite the fact that he’s terrified of water. He imagines the thick summer air of Muskoka, scents of sunscreen and pine; a perfect weekend getaway from the big city.
She pretends the TTC is the tube (pronounced “chew-b”). She fancies herself abroad in her own city because the UK feels older, wiser. More alive with its cobblestone paths and fog. When the train arrives at St. George station, she closes her eyes, as if the announcement voice might suddenly switch accents. He imagines Toronto as soft; still buzzing but less cynical. It’s more than just the CN tower and maple syrup. He craves long highways and an escape, and of a skyline that doesn’t feel ancient.
Every time she passes a sign for Pearson International Airport, she imagines boarding a one-way flight. If she lived there, she tells herself, she’d read more books and wear long trench coats. When he sees Heathrow, he pictures a life where he’s finally calm, surrounded by the quiet politeness of Canadian culture. After all, airports are full of people chasing versions of themselves they’ve only met online.
“New beginnings” have become a global industry– realtors, visa offices, self-help podcasts all selling the illusion that meaning is just a flight away. They both stand on opposite sides of a metaphor, each convinced the grass is greener, softer, and more vibrant on the other side. Neither of them realize they’re longing for a version of a life that doesn’t exist. At least, not in the way they imagine.
The fantasy of elsewhere casts upon us a spell in a humorous irony. It convinces us that a different skyline would make us happier, that changing postal codes would fix our restlessness. What we’re craving isn’t really a city, it’s a version of ourselves that feels unobserved. Maybe that’s why we do it– we romanticize the unfamiliar because we believe there’s a better us waiting somewhere else.
Elsewhere lets us believe we’re still possible, that we haven’t yet been fully defined by the places that know our footsteps. But no matter where we go, we still pack ourselves with the suitcase. The same thoughts, the same fears, the same flaws, just dressed in different weather.
So, she’ll keep checking flight prices to Manchester, and he’ll keep watching Toronto vlogs at 1 a.m. Somewhere between their daydreams, the world they already live in keeps going, patiently waiting to finally be loved.
