Shibuya maybe. But there are few places in the world where you can hear the humming throb of humanity like Leicester Square on a dry Saturday night. Too often cheated by the cheesy bars and chain stores that bob and weave in the corners, this square is not defined by what lies within, but in the possibilities without.
Venture beyond its perimeter and be rewarded with the scent of New Labour Britain. London in the 21st century. One of the world's great cities exposed with delight. Overexposures alive. Listen in for a moment as a couple navigates through the puddly winding streets.
Two girls in their early twenties skip by hand-in-hand, flush with early evening fever: "Did you know skipping was the most efficient ways to get around," one asks the other with a laugh.
An asian couple in polo shirts and khaki pants hold each other's hands tight as they head down one of the steamier alleys where the hint of suggestion hangs in the air and behind shaded glass. Hold each other tight like they are getting ready for lift-off.
The Blues Bar behind Liberty's isn't a secret any more if it ever was one. People line-up almost every night. Two men in line are trying to describe London. Describe the now.
"It's more like the 'after-just-now' that we need to see. See it's like it's all this postmodern space."
"How do you mean," says the Irishman.
"You know like the structure of the language of the streets. Every perspective different. No truths. Just post-time."
The Irishman looked at him strangely.
"You know like those bricks you work with," he continued. "The bricks disappear. There is no bricks as such. The brick isn't real. It's like that here. See all the different truths?"
The Irishman looked at his friend intently for a moment.
He says with a smile: "Till the fucking big brick comes around the back and cracks you in the head. You sure know it's real with a fucking big bruise on your head," he says with a whince, smiling and rubbing the back of his neck. The bouncer waves them into the not-so-secret Blues Bar.
A man turns the corner out of the tube, leading his friends by about 10 steps. "Zooooooo Bar!" he exclaims with obvious relief, hands aloft, awaiting a tower of hands. The hands arrive, relief all around for this crew of five. "Finally," several say with a smile. It's like a feeling that natural laws are somehow enhanced in London limits. Gravity. Thermodynamic entropy. Light. Time. Space. All working in a kind of metaphysical symphony, like a gust of wind on a ski hill knocking a man over as he tries to put on his gloves. Sometimes just making to your destination in London seems enough, like the night is already a success.
"Success!" That what I'm after, the woman says from the doorway of a peep show cabaret. "I feel like the world don't owe you nothin' 'cept a chance to be here. I'll take it from there."
The man in the street stands bleary eyed nodding his head. "The Golden Path" by the Chemical Brothers leaks out of the club. "I've got some hydrochloric ..." and the rest is drowned out by the swirling wind cutting across from Noho, the new territories north of Oxford Street.
Labels: london
