There is an enveloping warmth about London. An intimacy. An hour into the central part, and the comfort zone is complete. The maze of roads reveals itself in familiarity, as the names come off a childhood's Monopoly game and present themselves as places with people - prices come later. It insouciantly lets you feel at home - with the lived-in feel of its pavements, the lack of squeaky cleanliness, and the slightly tired regality, fronting iconic names like Selfridges and Marks and Spencer, and the like. And to my mind, it is one of the few cities in the world where you may not seek places, but the places will find you.
London, in a way, seems to know you. And you discover its pleasures, even when you might be doing something else. Its a rare character, only available in cities which are completely comfortable in their own skins. It loves itself, and lets its people do what they want - the city just knows that its soul is made of something infinite and infinitesimally indestructible. Of course people live and cry and crib and die - that's their DNA and the nature of things. And they continue with the loving and the intriguing and the shaming and the uppitiness. But they also care for a celebration of life, a careful carelessness. They know what it is to sit in the sun and feed the ducks in St James Park, to peacefully angle for fish in Clapham Commons, to contemplate the sky with a blade of grass in ones mouth in Hampstead Heath, to read a book in Hyde Park, to catch a play in Leicester Square or discover fresh adventures in Covent Gardens or discover a new restaurant off Regent Street or buy a double scoop ice cream in Piccadilly Square and watch people walk by.
Can't you do similar things anywhere else? Of course you can. In Istanbul you can sit beside the Bosphorous and watch the boats sail by; in Salzburg, the Salzach river catches reflections of castles, bridges and the sun all at the same time; along the Nile, the shores just throw stories at you; in Delhi, a morning walk in Lodhi Gardens has history walking beside you; in Calcutta, a tram ride can take you back and take you in; in New York, you can revel in the chic self containment of Soho. But none of these places has the busy serenity of London.
Maybe it is the sense of history interrupted, the solidity and memory of its buildings, the tranquility of its parks, or the solitude of a lot of its people. But even in its uncertainties and upper-lippness, no one seems to even try to disturb a very basic character of the city - the ability to be more of what it is, the more the world changes.
London, in a way, seems to know you. And you discover its pleasures, even when you might be doing something else. Its a rare character, only available in cities which are completely comfortable in their own skins. It loves itself, and lets its people do what they want - the city just knows that its soul is made of something infinite and infinitesimally indestructible. Of course people live and cry and crib and die - that's their DNA and the nature of things. And they continue with the loving and the intriguing and the shaming and the uppitiness. But they also care for a celebration of life, a careful carelessness. They know what it is to sit in the sun and feed the ducks in St James Park, to peacefully angle for fish in Clapham Commons, to contemplate the sky with a blade of grass in ones mouth in Hampstead Heath, to read a book in Hyde Park, to catch a play in Leicester Square or discover fresh adventures in Covent Gardens or discover a new restaurant off Regent Street or buy a double scoop ice cream in Piccadilly Square and watch people walk by.
Can't you do similar things anywhere else? Of course you can. In Istanbul you can sit beside the Bosphorous and watch the boats sail by; in Salzburg, the Salzach river catches reflections of castles, bridges and the sun all at the same time; along the Nile, the shores just throw stories at you; in Delhi, a morning walk in Lodhi Gardens has history walking beside you; in Calcutta, a tram ride can take you back and take you in; in New York, you can revel in the chic self containment of Soho. But none of these places has the busy serenity of London.
Maybe it is the sense of history interrupted, the solidity and memory of its buildings, the tranquility of its parks, or the solitude of a lot of its people. But even in its uncertainties and upper-lippness, no one seems to even try to disturb a very basic character of the city - the ability to be more of what it is, the more the world changes.
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