A summer evening stroll through our neighborhood

The 5 o'clock crowd at the pub blowing off some weekday steam with a pint or two before heading home for a quiet night off.

The hourly peal of the bells from the Anglican church. It's a strange and haunting tune, but one I will not soon forget.

The sunshine glinting off of the peaceful Round Pond of Kensington Gardens, reflecting the palace and the church steeple beyond in its upside down glasstop, while the geese and ducks paddle about cracking the mirror and hope for more bread crumbs.

The squeals of wound-up children playing on the swings and slide and wobbly beam in the garden playground across the road from us.

The scent wafting out from the Greek Orthodox Church. On Friday nights, it's also the traditional music twirling up from the basement while the next generation learns the age-old dances. On Sunday nights, the sounds outside change to the low melancholy chants seeping from the sanctuary while the old bishop in black recites the ancient songs and hymns.

The long lines at the local high street grocery as people stop off for a bottle of wine or the final items for a quick supper.

The older men from Greece and Cyprus challenging each other to backgammon tournaments at the local cafe.

The sweet fragrance and riot of color and greenery of the large old roses in full bloom in the front gardens around our neighborhood, inspiring me to create and tend my own secret city garden the next time I have a bit of earth.

The long low sun gilding the tops of the terrace row houses, polishing the city grime off of everything, and bathing the streets and gardens and pedestrians with a warm evening glow.

The manager of the Athenian Grocery sweeping the walk and stacking the now-empty produce crates to await tomorrow's delivery.

The elegant Muslim "covered women" with their black robes and colorful sequined scarfs herding happy children and chatting amongst themselves as they push strollers along the sidewalks.

The pounding of luggage wheels on the pavement as travelers circle our block in confusion searching for their hotels.

The dogs happily barking in the garden across the road, yapping at their owners who have let them off their leash for a few minutes of evening squirrel teasing and ball chasing.

All these have become the sights and sounds and smells of summer to me in London.

The same way that mustard-y bratwurst and the crowded Lakeshore path and the sound of a baseball cracking a ball at Wrigley and the Wednesday and Saturday night fireworks became summer in Chicago. The same way that blinking fireflies, juicy watermelon, noisy crickets, running lawnmowers, blackberry cobbler, and chicken salad take me back to Nashville. Now London, and particularly our little slice of it, begins to feel familiar and comforting - even with all its strangerly ways.