Sometimes there are new connections. Like Westfield Stratford City, where I've spent more time than I ever expected to, half-connected.
2012 wasn't the first time I'd been to Stratford, Stratford had existed for a long long time before that, but it was, in a way, a new place that I, and hundreds of thousands of others, went to in the summer of 2012, shuffling through one-way systems, warmly greeted by volunteers, a bit disoriented but getting to where we needed.
I went to the Stratford site three times that summer, but only began to get a good sense of the layout during the Paralympics, when there was space to move around freely and go to whichever events one chose.
In that context, it certainly seemed a beautiful place - sunset in the stadium, the new landscaping, the sense of achievement.
I was still a bit suspicious of that big old Westfield looming though. I kept a wide berth. But we moved to Ashford in late 2013 and Westfield became a necessary.
It's HS1 man, it's high speed. You whizz through east Kent, sometimes close to the M20, there are a few tunnels, then the first really striking moment is crossing the Medway on high, a lovely line of boats to the left and, to the right, the estuary, look down to Chatham and Rochester. Soon after that, you're at the internationalest of the internationals, Ebbsfleet International, where you kind of hope no one gets on. Then pretty soon, plunged into darkness, under the Thames, and you're in Essex and to your left are lots of big boats and and grids of trucks and the Dartford Bridge. In the distance, if you look, you can make out the towers of Canary Wharf. It's very flat, marshy, round there. Kind of Dickensian and murderous. Then you're plunged into a greater darkness and you're under London for a long time (I mean, 5 minutes or so). You emerge, somewhat, though still well below the surface, and Westfield and the casino hang over you and you're at Stratford (not actually) International.
Though it's more often St Pancras, I've made my way in and out of London many times through Stratford, which often means you have to walk through Westfield to the Stratford station which doesn't falsely claim to be international. I don't mind the vibes. I mean, I know it's a monster and I also know it has its incidents, but generally the vibes are good, young, young Londony, groups of bouncing children and young adults hanging out or on their way.
In summer, in the outside bits, with the countless mid-price chain restaurants that have come to dominate the landscape, the vibes can be genuinely good.
We know this is soulless, we know that, but soul isn't the only thing. An outside seat at Wahaca and one of their spicy beers is also a thing. London became this. There's no point complaining.
And the first place, the first place you come to and the first place I spotted, is this oddity at the International exit, this open plan craft beer bar/brewery called Tap East. You just wallk right in, walk walk walk right in.
Probably, in the last 8 years, that and the Parcelyard in King's Cross (where I have work meetings, amongst other things) are the London pubs I've spent most time in, which says everything about my relationship with London now. I can still do a day, do a night out, but even pre-Covid, I'd be looking for the places from which I could make a quick escape.
Tap East is fine, it's no one's dream spot, but they have a wide selection of IPAs and NEIPAs and Pale Ale and sprarkly citrussy whatevers, served by slightly offhand staff, they have big windows to the world going past, they have stools and a sofa, somewhere to sit if you've missed your train. It's not really a place for a big night, for settling in and feeling home, but it'll do for a couple and then home to bed within an hour.
For me, it's where London starts and ends now, the first place I see, and there are worse places.
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