London Memory: Four Christmas Trees

How a spontaneous midnight adventure—and four abandoned Christmas trees—turned a dorm into a home.

When I think of London, I don't just remember the city's fog or chill, I remember the strange warmth of four pine trees we carried home in the middle of the night. This is a story about roommates, laughter, unexpected companionship, and the quiet kind of magic that only youth (and maybe a little absurdity) can bring.

Every Minerva semester left a mark on me, but the spring of 2024 in London carved itself deeper than most. It was a time when cold winds swept the city, but in our tiny dorm flat, warmth found surprising ways to settle in.

I was living with three classmates: Lisa, Shawn, and Goga. We weren't close before that semester. I had just come out of a rocky housing situation that left me wary of shared spaces. So I entered our London apartment with low expectations and quiet hesitation.

But life, as it often does, surprised me.

For the first time in Minerva, I felt what it was like to live with people who made a space feel easy, even joyful. We cooked together. Laughed loudly at night. Explored London's bar scene after late-night drinks in our rooms. And when Yuzzy, a classmate from another unit, showed up with his cheeks flushed and grin wide, it became our signal: it was time to hit the dance floor.

Though I rarely drank, I still found myself dancing until sunrise, learning (somewhat to my surprise) that there's something freeing about losing track of time with people who make you feel safe.

Then came the night of the trees.

Then came the night of the trees.

It started like any other: a grocery run that turned into a stroll through quiet streets. Christmas had passed, and the sidewalks were dotted with abandoned pine trees, stripped of their decorations, waiting to be forgotten. We paused.

Goga grinned. "Let's take them home."

Lisa stared at him. "You're insane."

Shawn and I? "Let's do it."

So we did. Four students, four trees, each of us awkwardly carrying one through the night streets, trying not to drop needles all over the sidewalks, laughing so hard we could barely walk straight.

When we reached our building, another student spotted us and froze, eyes wide. We burst into louder laughter. The elevator ride was chaotic. The clean-up even more so. Pine needles were scattered across the floor, the trees towering awkwardly in our small flat.

But somehow, they fit. More than that, they belonged.

We lined them up by height. Placed our hats and glasses on them like costumes. They became us. Little wooden versions of our friendship, growing unexpectedly in the middle of a city that didn't know our names.

We kept them the whole semester. Goga draped fairy lights over the branches. They glowed softly in the evenings. I would come home from the gym, open the door, and see them there: silent, gentle reminders of how far I'd come from the kid who arrived in London, nervous and unsure.

I didn't have a word for the feeling then. I do now. It was warmth.

I didn't have a word for the feeling then. I do now. It was warmth.

When the semester ended, we had to get rid of them because rules are rules, and the housing manager wouldn't find four trees in a dorm particularly charming. So we threw them off the balcony. (Don't worry—we had a plan.)

Lisa's boyfriend, Alvin, did most of the heavy lifting. Shawn and Goga waited downstairs to make sure no one got hit by falling trees. It was messy, ridiculous, and completely on brand for our little household.

And yet, those trees, and everything they came to represent, stayed with me. Even now, as I write this, the memory returns: four glowing trees in a London dorm room, each one holding a story. Laughter. Friendship. A kind of magic that flickers quietly behind fairy lights.

In the heart of winter, we built something soft. Something that felt like home.