Dear England,

Land of the Tea, Home of the Knave, you have hosted me for four and a half months now. I have drank your tea, stalked your princes, and ate your scones (sc-awn-s). I have also drank your beer, cursed David Cameron, and eaten your chips (fries). And I couldn’t have been happier to do so.

I have loved London with a obsession that does not go away. It's the place where I found more aesthetically pleasing bookstores than actual Brits (very disappointed in this; London stop pushing your locals out); where you put on a play about a transgender woman in a small town (Kinky Boots was just too good not to mention); where the parks were so green and full of tulips (I was way too tempted to run through them, but not to worry; I didn't out of fear of being deported over flowers); where life was fast, but my feet were slow walking through the historic streets; where the Globe of Shakespeare sits still putting on plays for five pounds if you're willing to stand for five hours; where the inspirations for Number 5 Grimmauld Place and Diagon Alley from Harry Potter sit in quiet corners; where I wandered through Kensington looking for Prince Harry (marry me?); and where I imagined stories were written and where authors thrived. I could not have loved you more for everything you gave me. All the memories you left me wit; they’ll keep me longing to go back.

But England, you’re so much more than just London and the royal family. You’re the Lake District, Bath, small towns, even smaller pubs, and incredibly nice people. You’re the sweet old ladies having tea at Marks and Spencer's and the teenagers in Primark and “cheeky” Nandos. You’re the dogs running through Avenham Park and the pasty people (myself included) trying to sun on the first day of good weather. You’re the rain for three and a half months and sun for a week. You’re the cold that made me appreciate Florida, but get thicker blood. You’re the mountains and lakes I climbed. You’re the Roman Baths and Jane Austen hangouts. You’re the rich accents of the South, and the endearing but hard to understand accents of the North (I’m looking at you, Liverpool). You’re the history in Stonehenge. You’re the Cavern Club of the Beatles, and Wordworth’s writing chair at Dove Cottage.

I've stood in awe in front of the Georgian architecture of Bath, the leftover carcass of Saint Luke's in Liverpool, and of course, Parliament.

Since I arrived, my voice has changed, not to your accent, but with your inflection. Because everything must end like a question?

You’ve given me great friends: American, British, other Europeans. Friends I never would have met without this experience. Friends I traveled with, drank with, and watched “10 Things I Hate About You” with.

I’ve gotten a new take on how to write fiction. And ultimately met so many people that new characters are sewing themselves into my writing. I’ve had experiences that have been so easy to write about because they are just that crazy. I’ve walked around cities where authors frequented or lived so that I might inhale some of their creative genius.

I’ve eaten the best ethnic food--shoutout to Equator and Three Monkeys! And had some of the best fish and chips I’m sure I’ll ever have. If someone asks me if I want tea, I’ll have to ask if it’s iced, in which case I need it to be sweet, and if it’s warm, hand over the milk and sugar. I’ve had the world’s best bun in Sally Lunn’s and the cheapest high tea in Marks and Spencer’s.

I have such a love for you at this point in my life, I haven’t even left yet and I’m trying to figure out how I can come back.

Thank you for the memories and experiences; I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

Your always smiling and ever-paling, but very thankful, American.