London in January on a Friday night
Americans have an idea that British people drink more than they do. Is this statistically true? I don’t know, but being in London on a Wednesday, Thursday or Friday night reinforces the stereotype.
London no longer allows indoor smoking as many cities in the US. The result is a cloud of smoke and crowds standing outside of the ubiquitous pubs on Cannon Street, in Soho, or other places in London that are in my imagination.
Britain has launched a multi-million dollar ad campaign to fight binge drinking. From my own personal experience, people in London are at least more open about stopping off at the pub than their American counterparts. There has never been a Thursday or Friday at the office where I haven’t heard about groups of people leaving for the pub.
So what is Friday night like in London in January? I went to London’s Chinatown tonight for dinner and walked back. The streets are filled with people - hipsters, business people, punks, gay couples, snogging youths. Every alley has fun-seekers walking out and the curious walking in. The non-Christmas, snow man decorations are suspended above the streets, even though the days are too warm for snow to stay on the ground. Friday night in London looks like a joyous occasion.
The subways are filled to the brim with people cooler than me on their way to have more fun than me. I have to push my way in. The people have haircuts combed forward and are fumbling with their Blackberries and iPods while holding the most modern books.
The British speak a language that is similar to my own, but different. I still cannot cross the street here without help from a local. Like the late-week rituals, I cannot interpret the subliminal cultural signs that tell me when it is safe to cross. I can observe, but barely partake. I never feel more like a foreigner than on a Friday night walking the streets by myself. I am a stranger in a strangely foreign land.
Tonight I walked the streets of Soho. I passed Judy Dench staring out at me from a theater. I passed the empty stalls of Covent Garden Market. I saw the smoke rising from cracks in the street. I felt the damp chill of the January air. I saw the modern and ugly hotels rising out of the empty brownstone streets. I saw the palm reader sitting in front of the pub while a man stood nearby wearing a television on his midriff. The city moved around me and I passed through on my way back to my temporary home. That is Friday night in London.
