Parries → My City to Your City 

Forgive me I’m a malcontent. I just went for a late-night walk, as I was so wont to do whilst not dogless, the first time ever really in Brighton, and this therefore is a good time to stop making mentions here and there with a sigh, stop driving Irit crazy with reminisciences of times before her, and let it be free: I miss Tel Aviv, and quite deeply.

I did not miss the city that much when I left it for the Jerusalem hills. One time in particular, close to my leaving the country, I was driving to TA and at the Jabotinsky exit from the Ayalon said to myself, Nah, this isn’t my city any more. Thing is, it hadn’t been replaced by any other, so it was foolishness, the mind trying to decide things it cannot, because a city can only stop being your city if and when another replaces it.

Tonight I walked along the beach and though there is something pleasant about squelching over the pebbles, like futons to people who don’t like futons, it lacks the sensuousness and relaxation of being barefoot in the sand. A bunch of loud white kids came running down from the promenade shouting vilely to each other. Yesterday we had seen El Topo at the fabulous Duke of York cinema and this scene at the beach reminded me of when the three bandits gradually build up their cackling harassment of the man in black as he rides into their valley. But of course the kids left me alone. A few minutes earlier back on the streets I’d passed a group of darker young fellows speaking Spanish or Portuguese or something and felt much more comfortable walking past them. Is it because I’m more at home with Mediterranean people after all?

On the streets at night, yes, because it seems among the White English the only people out and about at night are teenagers looking for something—anything—to do; policemen; and the sort of people the policemen are there to deter. Sure, it’s 2am on Monday morning, yes, most people are sleeping, but not all, and not all of these are doing something indoors. From a population of 150,000-odd this leaves a sizeable chunk to be out and about—
[Wait. I’m trying to find just what the town’s population is. I’ve gone to http://www.brighton-hove.gov.uk. I clicked on your city—not a very friendly URL, that. Don’t they never expect someone to go direct to /city? See if there’s a redirect. Nope, not for /city nor /your-city. Ah, but there is for my third try, /yourcity! They are thinking—but within the box of their own site design.

[Nor is there an introduction to the city on this homepage. No minature essay. What does it actually say? “This area is dedicated to our city’s environment. It’s packed with information on environmental issues.” Packed is it? I’m pleased, as it is a section dedicated to the environment after all, as we learned in the previous sentence. This is not quite at the level of the statue of Cody Burrow on the Old Steine is it? What happened to the terse and dynamic feel of the active verbs introduced at the top-level menu? Once we’re out of navigation and into content it’s back to idiotese, eh? Packed with information. Last time I read that phrase was on the Food Force site before I, ah, suggested an alternative.

[There’s nothing about the city’s history. Has that just been relegated to a different site? So it’s back to Google to type “brighton sussex population”. Surprise, Wikipedia. 155,919. Ah, ok, these things are all at the national level—the info is at another site: statistics.gov.uk. These are the nation’s top mathematical minds so I type “brighton popularion” into the statistics site search engine just to see how clever it is. It’s not. Perhaps there is good reason to use Google’s search rather than that of the content management system. But I’m being optimistic. “brighton population” produces no results neither. Nor can I find it using the index they politely suggest I use since their search engine isn’t up to much in the searching department.]

Some places tonight were actually open, among them the Fishbowl, which was lively with people of all ages. The gardens at the Royal Pavilion stay open at night and from in there the Pavilion is gorgeous. It seems shoddy however that the streets at night platform strutting seagulls, undisturbed by passersby of any sort as they peck and tear at orange garbage bags. We’re just lucky that seagulls have pretty craws.

And yet there is beauty here stepping out the door, it’s undeniable. Even if it is mild beauty—not arresting, not dazzling—it’s nonetheless completely seductive. The residential streets around Clifton Hill are a lovely balance between elegance—some of which you see closer to shore in the grand Regency period residential squares—and picaresque homeyness.

So where was I?