A love letter to cities

Pump the filth, the beauty, the mess and the magic into my veins.

Photo by Gene Limbrick: London crowds celebrate England’s Euro 2020 semi-final win (July, 2021)

An audio version of this article, by me, is available here:

Let’s escape. Let’s turn off our phones, leave our desks and lose ourselves in the ebb and flow of this city – this testament to our need for connection.

Balconies stacked like bricks, the lives of those who occasionally use them secreted away inside rooms that disappear into warm light. I watch from my own balcony. Hands curled around a mug of tea, or a glass of wine, depending on the time or on my mood. I see people laugh, cry, argue, read, smoke, dance, play the piano and occasionally watch me back. I don’t feel embarrassed. I even wave. Sometimes they smile, sometimes they shrug.

I love it all.

London born and raised, I’m a city person through and through. I’ve tried to find peace in the countryside, but I can’t, I don’t, I won’t. I always return to cities – seeking out the filth, the beauty, the mess, the magic. Wherever I am in the world, I’ll gravitate to the busy place, inhaling the smell of asphalt and listening to the jankety-jank of roadworks with relief. There you find grime and glamour, elation and despair. It’s a homecoming of sorts even if I have no idea where I am. Blood pumping, heart racing, skin tingling, I belong where I am unknown. The freedom of anonymity. While some find this lonely, I find it exhilarating. All of us play a role in this theatre, even when lost in every sense of the word.

Leaping out of the way of scooters, sharpening elbows on public transport, smiling at the buskers, avoiding the money-talkers, submitting to the inescapable propulsion forward. On, on, on. More, more, more. And yet, there is always stillness to be found. Moments of calm. Snatches of peace grasped and held onto for their scarcity. You remember them.

Every city has its own vibe, its own mood, its own colour. I taste it, feel it, smell it, touch it, and, oh God, do I hear it. The sound of a city, its heartbeat, the thing that keeps you alert and awake. The music, the laughter, the singers, the callers, the mutterers, the beep beeps. The sirens, the howls, the shrieks, the roars, the screams. See how light and dark listening can be? Lucky you, tucked up in bed or watching from the window, warm and safe. Lucky you, out in the middle of it, lip bitten, hands shaking, feeling utterly present, utterly there.

All of it noise, none of it nuisance. All of it reassuring me that I am alive and that I am not alone. Not ever.

London, Amsterdam, New York, Bangkok, Tokyo, Ho Chi Minh, Milan, Paris, Phnom Penh – all cities that I have been sucked into the very fabric of, if only for a few days, a few months, a few years. Each a living thing, a beast with its own way of doing things. Take London, my home, that great mistress of smoke and smog, of brick and glass, of old and new, where energy thrums through the streets. London has an edge so sharp you can cut yourself – and often do if you’re living right, if you’re doing it properly. That edge is both thrilling and alarming. I hate London sometimes for its ruthlessness, but it’s a hate coated in love, same as that for a relative discussed through gritted teeth.

London holds a tension so palpable you can almost chew it. You suspect that it knows things about you that no one else knows. Things that you only admit to yourself or to strangers in toilets at 3am. You feel proud to belong, if only for a moment, and when you’ve left, there’s a relief, but you wonder what it’s up to, what you’re missing out on. London is furious, beautiful, brutal. It dares you to be unimpressed.

Amsterdam doesn’t care one way or another. It is slower. More reserved. There is no edge, no thrum of madness in the air. Rather than a sharp inhale, it engenders a slow exhale. This is due to its size and design, of course, but also from its inherent self-possession. It is cool, calm, collected, composed. It is the confident cousin reading a book, watching with a wry raised eyebrow as London tears through life leaving nothing behind. They are both unapologetic in different ways and for that alone I love them.

People celebrate books that successfully make the setting a character. It is one reason why I adore Stephen King. Yet, to me, that is essential with cities. Living in a city is to step into, for a small moment, its story. You can make your own life there – sure, go ahead, have at it – but the place will always outgrow and outlive you. Cities shape and dictate what happens to us, not the other way around. That is as it should be.

In these unsettling times when the very structures of society feel unstable, I find comfort in the resilience of the cities I love. They have stood for centuries. They will stand for centuries. I find comfort in looking out over a cityscape and seeing lights in tiny windows turn on and off. In seeing toy-size cars drive to who knows where to do who knows what. People are out living lives that we can only dream of. As you read or listen to this, someone out there is having the worst day of their life while someone else is having the best day of theirs. How inspiring, invigorating, interesting. Thinking of this, and recognising that I am a part of it, makes me feel curious and creative – and that is how I cope.

The above timelapse was made by me in Ho Chi Minh, Vietnam. The copyright is mine.

Just One More Thing

I know that cities aren’t for everyone. That people find them overwhelming and suffocating. I also recognise that humans weren’t built for the urban lives that capitalism has shaped for us. I have many issues with the demands associated with living in a city. And yet, I find such magic in how us ‘city people’ resolutely stay or find ways to return. Cities sink their claws into us for good or ill and I am grateful for how much of a hold they have on my heart.

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A quick postscript: I acknowledge that this is a pretty random post. It is pertinent to my life right now though, and I loved writing it. In fact, I’m going to make ‘A love letter to…’ a regular thread, paying homage to things that have impacted my life in wonderful ways.

People advise focusing on one particular thing with a newsletter to gain more subscribers (so people know what they’re getting each week). It’s solid advice and it works. However, I started ‘Just One More Thing’ specifically so I could write about whatever I like, whenever I like. I hope that, even if you did subscribe for one particular topic, you’re enjoying the unpredictability. Thank you for your support. I started this as a personal passion project and to know that it has touched some of you makes me proud.

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If you enjoy what you read/listen to and would like to buy me a coffee, that would be lush.

*Exceedingly modest reminder that I have written eight bestselling mental-health books which have been translated into at least 10 languages. I’ve also written a book about the TV show Friends which would make a delightful gift for any Friends obsessives. All are available to buy online or at your local bookshop.