A Night On the Sofa
London, I often say, is a city defined by hundreds of small villages that it slowly took over. In the North, you have the example of the former country residence of London’s upper classes, Highgate. A wonderful town feel still remains here, as does the famous cemetery housing Karl Marx’s grave. You can ignore the traffic noise of the Archway road as it turns into the A1, the start of the arterial road to Scotland. People here are still wealthy, and still seek that slightly removed-from-town-feel. It’s a good place to go for a walk, and has some excellent cafés for lazy afternoon lunches.
In the West End, the church of St Martin in the Fields abuts Trafalgar Square, just north of Parliament. It’s busy, and the fields are no where to be seen. Yet the church in its previous form was there when the rich started building out their houses in this farmland, outside of the City and near the palace of Westminster. The area is now home to Whitehall, home to the civil service of the UK government, although it’s also home to the arts, where film, theater and comedy mix artfully with the smallest Chinatown in the world. There’s a place here that serves delicious lemon cake and tea bags with tea leaves in them, and comfy sofas. It’s central, and a good place for evening conflabs with friends, the external noise dimmed by being downstairs.
In East London, you’ll find Shoreditch. This part of town has been home to first generation immigrants going back to when the major docks on the Thames were a short distance away, and the Regent’s Canal helped encourage industry. As the docks and industry disappeared in the 20th century, the area maintained its status as a low-quality housing area, a first start for those with little money to own or rent their own place. And then the 80s happened, and cheap housing near the booming city became a draw, and it became home to an ‘alternative’ scene. During the first decade of the 21st century, hipsters reign supreme. Trilbies and uncomfortable looking jeans with suit jackets and hair that looks like it takes *time* dominates. There is also amazing food - Lebanese, Thai, Vietnamese, and Greek vie with West African and Subcontinental food.
I’m sitting in a ludicrously named bar, Zigfrid von Underbelly, at a gathering for friend who is leaving the country*. It’s a Friday, and I’m tired from a week of colds and coughs and late nights at work, but happy to be catching up with friends. And it’s a good place - tasty food, good (but expensive) cocktails, esoteric movies playing on small hanging screens and varied music playing out over strangely shaped speaker stacks. We’re ranged on sofas, armchairs and stools, remeeting old friends and making new ones.
Two hours later, I’m talking at the top of my voice, trying to find out why a friend is moving to Kosovo. “You said Kosovo?”
He nods. Nodding is easier, as the varied music is now playing twice as loud logarithmically as it was when I came in.
I gave up thoughts of introducing myself with to the people that are new to me an hour ago. In order to introduce myself, I would have to speak, and speaking is difficult in this environment, especially when you have to explain your accent and odd background to people.
The Kosovan-bound Chris (for that is his name) leaves in search of a bathroom. I look up and see the immediately identifiable cinematographic work of Jean-Pierre Jeunet, all striking filters and comic-book faces. When Chris returns, we sit, the conversation silent, watching the screen. The movie has a silent picture feel about it, although I’m sure the background score is unlike the sound of Bowie, who is reverberating through everything.
I imagine Polar Bear, rhyming/rapping/speaking through a track, his mouth and words accidentally synchronizing with the characters on screen. It seems unlikely - I’m not sure Polar Bear speaks French.
The music gets louder again, for no discernible purpose. The tree trunk over our head, carved into the shape of a hand, is held together by strips of metal. While the music plays, I have visions of it shaking free from the ceiling, the two extended fingers plunging either side of me.
I blink - back at the party. While the music lasts, my fatigue has overcome me, and I’m too tired to speak.
When we leave, the quiet noises of busy nightlife rush into my ears. Behind me, the music plays out as we walk through the cobbled streets.
———-
* she isn’t actually leaving. The leaving is a lie, for now at least
