I believe I can lay claim to one of the most interesting daily commutes. Most mornings, I jump on either the 159 or 3 bus, traveling from Kennington across Lambeth or Westminster Bridge. The journey is a visual feast: the grandeur of the Houses of Parliament, the historic streets of Whitehall, the bustling vibrancy of Trafalgar Square, the iconic sweep of Piccadilly Circus, and the elegant charm of Regent Street, all the way into Fitzrovia. On occasion, I take alternative routes, winding through Park Lane or Holborn. There’s always something happening, and some commutes have been particularly memorable.

Take, for instance, the biker protests. For weeks, a group of motorcyclists would slowly circle the Trafalgar Square roundabout during the morning rush hour, bringing traffic to a grinding halt. While I admired their cause, the ensuing gridlock tested my patience daily. Couldn’t they have chosen another roundabout?

Then, there’s the man I’ve spotted many times over the last few years. Wearing a white shirt over his suit, he walks through Millbank, Whitehall, and Trafalgar Square, displaying a black marker pen inked message on the shirt, accusing MI5 of an assassination attempt on him. The shirt seems to double as his personal suit of armor.

Demonstrations are a frequent feature of this route. I’ve seen peace activists encamped in Parliament Square, students sprawled across the roads for impromptu picnics, and patient police officers quietly observing. The juxtaposition of chaos and calm creates a strange yet oddly comforting rhythm to the city. Many international groups protesting faraway wars, demanding No 10’s attention.

I vividly recall the Tamil Tigers demonstration in Parliament Square, which stretched on for two weeks. Walking through the square it was impossible not to walk over posters laid on the ground of bloody slaughters in Sri Lanka. The area was flooded with police, some armed with machine guns, while river patrol boats stood ready to prevent any mass plunges into the Thames. Not sure, but I think the Tamil Tigers may have been designated a terroist group, hence the armed police presence, but far too large a group for the police safely handle. The unrest mirrored the faraway struggles in Sri Lanka, bringing global tensions into the heart of London.

Some moments have been breathtaking. One stormy morning, as dark rain clouds loomed over Westminster, a single shaft of sunlight illuminated the solitary white lion statue guarding the entrance to Westminster Bridge. It was a fleeting exquisite moment of beauty amidst the bustle.

Not every memory has been picturesque. Last Monday was a particular low point. Passing Waterloo Station during rush hour, I witnessed a man, entirely unbothered by his surroundings, drop his pants and relieve himself on the street. At that moment, I found myself wondering: Why am I still living in London?

But then, there are the moments that make me smile. Two Star Troopers casually strolling up Regent Street. Or the morning when a sharply dressed man on Regent Street stripped down to Baywatch-red briefs. He was incredibly fit, and judging by the grin on his face, it was clearly the result of a bet. His confidence brightened my day and still brings a smile to my face.

One morning, I passed a lone soldier in uniform walking through Whitehall. As he reached the Cenotaph, he paused to offer a solemn salute—a brief but poignant reminder of the sacrifices made by so many. Meanwhile, just a block away, queues circled the Apple Store for the latest iPad—a juxtaposition of remembrance and consumerism.

Sometimes I get opportunities to feel really good, reuniting a lost phone with its grateful owner on the 159 bus. Or once listening to conversation of fellow passengers sat in front of me; an older brother showing his younger brother the London sights – a first time visitor to the big smoke. Realising, from their conversation, they only have a few pounds spare to buy food for their evening meal, trying to figure out what they could afford. In the meantime, I have with no care for cost paid more for a snack that they have to spend. My mind whirs on how to give them the £20 I have in my purse without insinuating poverty/charity. In the end I wrap the money in a piece of paper, and as I get off tap the older brother on the shoulder saying I think he dropped something and hand him the paper. I jump off the bus before he sees what it is. I hope they had a fun meal. He was putting in so much concern to taking care of his brother.

Not every journey is on the bus. Today, I braved the stifling heat of a packed Northern Line. I hate the Tube and since the 7/7 tube bombings I generally avoid. Amid the crush of bodies and the oppressive heat, I notice a young woman silently holding back tears. The loneliness etched on her face, a reminder of how isolating life in a crowded city can sometimes feel.

London, with all its contradictions, continues to surprise, frustrate, and inspire me. My commute, a microcosm of this extraordinary city—messy, beautiful, and never dull. Walking across Lambeth Bridge I stop and remind myself of how lucky I am I get to live here, with all the opportunities and beauty and to never to take it for granted.