London is en exceptionally beautiful city - an intrigue that I did not expect. I like it even better than Paris and Berlin. The three of them are all historically rich cities, embedded with both military glamour and post-war ruins, but London surpasses the latter due to its re nou spirit that the other two do not have. It is true that there are a lot of people in Paris, but somehow Parisians are lazy now, stop working on their leisure time and making the most enjoyable worklessness out of it. They have already forgotten the positivism of the Rimbaudian spirit. Berlin is even worse. Although very cultured, the streets are all living dead without a life of their own. They merely served as floors to be stepped on by Berliners but do not radiate any dynamic energy; an energy that I believe a cosmopolitan should stand out.
The second reason that I prefer London to the other two cities is its
”crowdedness”. This “crowdedness” I feel is not the feeling of suffocation that Hong Kong has, but rather, a smell of existence; a kind of smell that when I walk on the streets, I could see many, many, diverse beings around hanging out, a feeling of companionship or even comradeship that there are somebody being there for me, although I do not know them at all. We even have not look at each other for once, but this sense of convergence of togetherness indeed gives me a great deal of comfort, slows me down and puts me to sleep.
My friend and I were enjoying ourselves at the Covent Garden today. We sat on the roadside outside the market, each of us holding an extremely big baked potato (much bigger than those in Oliver’s), listening to the music played by a guitarist on the opposite bank of the block. The weather was fine with me, very windy, little sunshine little rain. I couldn’t imagine another lunch better than this one.
Londoners love music very much. Music is a part of their lives, and they could sing and dance and play musical instruments whenever and wherever they like. It is not unusual that people would bring with them huge amplifiers or drum sets to a square nearby and started to play their own music. They are even serious enough to make their own CDs and sell them after playing. No matter it is morning or late night, you must see someone playing guitar and singing in underground stations. But my favorite sidewalk encounter these few days was a violinist in South Bank. He played under a small dark bridge, looking not at his violin strings but around at the passersby. Yet, this seeming distraction did not hinder his performance. When I came across, he was playing the most cliché tune among Hong Konger – “Meditation” that appears in old TV series when a mum died of incurable disease when we audience were supposed to weep. Growing up in such exploitive tradition I’m also supposed to have heard this tune so many times that I have been desensitized and thus feeling indifferent by now. But this young violinist did manage to revitalize the tune in my heart and moved me once again. The song was a beautiful tune after all, and the crescendos which he smoothly spilled out with the bow echoed all over the underneath darkness of that little bridge.
A kiss was the only thing missing in this scene.
10th March, 2002
Draft in London
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