PERCY, London:
Halfway through a Insurance Application Form that I am filling out for the new acquistion in Bulgaria, I slip away from my desk and wrap myself in a scarf and hat and my coat before swinging out of the office and into the blustery street. The London weather has warmed from the icy metropolis it was when I arrived, but I still have to put my head down and wrap my clothes firmly around myself to march across the square to Sloane Square Tube Station. As the subway car bumps and jerks, I read a book (Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks, absolutely phenomenal) as I sway back and forth and try not to knock into the people standing adjacent. This skill of reading standing up and for only short snatches of time, a paragraph here and a paragraph there while subconsciously listening to the names of the approaching subway station, is one that I have cultivated actively while in London.
I step out of the tunnel at Westminster, and walk through the bracing air around Westminster Cathedral as I wait for the massive sound of Big Ben to sound noon. And when it does, I stride up to the imposing bobby(policeman)-guarded entrance of The Houses of Parliament, and request to be let in. Of course, technically anyone can go into the Houses of Parliament as it is meant to be open to the public, but with the students rioting violently in the streets of London (rocks thrown through windows, the Prince of Wales car attacked), everyone seems slightly uncomfortable in government places, and the bobby asks me where I am going. When I tell him I am going to meet with a member of parliament, he looks at me skeptically and asks the name of this "member of parliament." But when I respond with a mixture of innocence and conviction, the gate slides open and I am allowed in. Then it is through security, at the end of which I am given a pass with a photo ID to wear around my neck, and I am in.

The main hall of the House Of Commons is centuries old, built by Richard the Second, and housing various historical events from the trial of William Wallace to the execution of various enemies of the state. I sweep through the towering, cold and inelegant hall, and into the main lobby, a glittering room full of people, tourists, secretaries speeding on urgent missions, and the people with the power. And then, from among the clusters of strange faces, comes one I recognize. Rory Stewart shakes my hand like an old friend (which I guess, do to the length and involvement of our work together, me raising money to support his foundation in Afghanistan etc., is what we are). With the charm and intelligence that has made him one of the most inspiring and respected people in Parliament (and before that at Harvard, and before that in Kabul, and before that etcetc.). Amusingly, he is one of Time Magazines 100 Most Important people. Who knows, maybe someday he will be Prime Minister. He guides me around the House Of Commons, leaving the public viewing halls and going into the back hallways, the pathways of power and government, where people stride solemnly and importantly from one task to another.

His office is full of bright young assistants who seem intent on creating the ultimate image of the ultimate MP, and have a wild rapport that I watch with fascination. The walls are covered with beautiful Afghan calligraphy, delicate spirals of black and gold ink, many of them from the school that we funded in Kabul. 

As we stand out on a terrace overlooking the Thames that admires panoramic views of London, he tells me about being an MP, trying to geniunely improve the lives of his constituents, having to write another book, and how all he really wants to do is walk across Burma. I ask him for advice, what he could give to someone at my crossroads in life, and he simply insists that I enjoy what freedom I have now in my life, to wake up as many mornings as possible with no obligations, and, if I want to understand the world, to leave textbooks and papers behind me and travel to whatever foreign lands it is I want to understand. To live in a village, to know the people, and of course, to walk.

The depth and eloquence of his advice and general demeanor leaves me grateful and inspired, and as I emerge into the bracing London air, and speed back to Sloane Square, a thousand different pathways of my life roll out in front of me, each one backoning, all leading to places I want to see.