I was never really that keen on Brighton.
I mean, here I was, at 25, about to move abroad for a Masters, poised for success and world domination, and of all places, cruelly discarding the NYCs and Londons of the world, I was ending up with Brighton?
I decided to be positive about this. Brighton, I learnt, wasn’t any old sleepy English town, it was supposed to be the party capital of the UK. Being the sunniest and closest beach to London (50 minutes on the train), it was quite day-tripper central, hell, it was London by the Sea.
Brighton, London by the Sea. Brighton, as a local UK railway website claimed, the new Barcelona. Brighton, where scandals were broken, Brighton where the West End premiered, Brighton, gay capital.
Then there were its sights and sounds. The spectacular Royal Pavillion, a 16th century ‘Indian fantasy’ (combining Indian, Moorish, baroque, gothic and Chinese architecture) monument that featured on all tourist brochures, key chains and fridge magnets. Fridge magnet icon two was the Brighton Pier, quite the fine specimen of the British seaside notable for its fish and chips and ‘must-have’ stick of Brighton rock candy. The Brighton Marina, with its yachts, waterside cafes and shopping centres. The branded-and-boutiqued South Lanes; and right across the road, the gipsy-kitch North Laines. And last but certainly not the least, the colorful, pulsating, retro-music blaring, gay pubs at Kemp Town. On the coolness-o-meter, Brighton was suddenly shining very bright.
In the one year that I’ve lived in Brighton, I’m not sure if I’ve maximized on Brighton’s coolness quotient. My tourist checklist is shockingly incomplete: I never made it to the Marina even once (I just passed it by once on the way to the supermarket; only to discover that it was eminently passbyable) and just about tolerated the Pavillion and the Pier. I always felt the Pavillion is what you got when a cosmetic surgeon got the Taj Mahal wrong. Incidentally, this was the only building Hitler wanted to be saved during the Second World War because he wanted to convert it into the Nazi HQ. Did I say incidentally? Sorry.
The Pier, meanwhile, has more to offer. Not the ‘must-have’ Brighton rock (which you really mustn’t have) and certainly not the Fish and Chips; but the Belgian Waffles (crisp, light, and best accompanied by the cherry and whipped cream topping) and yes, the washroom. The only one in the area. If you ask me, Brighton’s fridge magnet icons look best on the fridge.
I guess I’m being a bit unfair. The thing is that traditional touristy lore about Brighton has reduced it to a plastic, unattractive version of its real self. The parallels with London for instance. London, with its fabled frenzy, feels a lot more than 50 minutes away as soon as you step into the Brighton station. The overwhelming bigness of everything shrinks (I started feeling a bit Gulliverish in my first few weeks), the pace switches to a 70s Vijay Anand dream sequence, and the people -- unlike the zombied faceless masses of the tube -- are smiley, beamy and chatty.
In fact, my best memories of Brighton are not art or architecture, but people-centric. The cab driver at Pool Valley Coach station (the bus station by the Pier, recognizable by the loudest, screech-iest seagulls you’d have seen anywhere), for instance, who took a weepy-eyed me to my university residence. He insisted on carrying my two one-tonne suitcases, waited patiently while I stopped by for a sandwich (being used to the forever-irate, sometimes crook, Delhi autowallah, I kept palpitating about him taking off with my stuff, or charging me extra for the wait), and then looked almost confused when I reminded him that I needed to pay him (think Delhi autowallah in similar situation). “Oh, right, of course,” said he. The autowallah in my head almost screamed in frustration.
The people of Brighton make the touristy stuff, deservingly touristy. The Pier for instance, on a sunny day, with scores of young and old people with smiley dogs bounding alongside, is one of my favourite scenes. I once stopped a young man for a chat about (and to) his tiny, peculiar, rodent-like 10-month-old pup. We were joined by an old man, who seemed equally interested in the dog. “I looked like that when I was 10 months old,” he chirped.
The gay and graffitied enclave of Kemp Town with its rows of tiny, throbbing, sometimes-decrepit clubs, is yet another. It doesn’t matter what day it is, but Queen’s Arms, my favourite karaoke bar, will always have the queer person dancing -- quite literally -- with gay abandon to the Gloria Gaynor classic I Will Survive. He/She would be my poster person for Brighton.
Gay is quite the norm in Brighton. I know a 20-something girl, brought up by a lesbian couple, who’s been through adolescence dating same-sex partners. Just last year, she realised she’s straight and now has a boyfriend. Brighton means a reversal of the standard equations.
Quite naturally, Gay Pride in August is one of the biggest events on the Brighton calendar. The kaleidoscopic parade starts on the sea-front and finishes off at Preston Park, an area where there is much fun, games and all things subversive. There are standing toilets for women (they even sell a nozzle-like apparatus for 20 pence to facilitate the process), gay musicians liberating conventional love songs of their patriarchal overtones, and nothing as we, born of the Section-377 age, would consider ‘normal’.
Before I got to Brighton, I imagined that being the gay capital of the UK could mean: 1) having a huge gay population 2) a big Pride turnout. I didn’t ever imagine that the gay liberation movement in Brighton, would have liberated the city and its inhabitants of other forms of conventionality.
The city celebrates the Naked Bike Ride every June 15th to signal the vulnerability of bikers to motorists. ‘Come naked, or as naked as you dare,’ said the poster. This was going to be fun, I thought. Yet another example of typically western decadence. Sunday dawned bright and sunny, and armed with camera and sniggering friends, I stood waiting for the naked bikers, at the beachfront. Naked, had been taken very literally, I realised as men, women, of all shapes and sizes (the presence of several grandma-grandpa type figures perhaps made it seem less pornographic) rode past like a storm; laughing, hooting, and obviously enjoying the look of shock on all our faces.
I almost started feeling foolish at my own stiff upper err, jaw. Brighton was already taking effect.
I suspect it is this sense of liberation that attracts the tourists - and makes many of them prolong their visits - for life. In a strangely ironical way, Brighton, the perennial tourist hotspot, always feels like home. Come for a day, or a month and get sucked into the city’s festivities - from the Brighton Comedy festival in the autumn, to the art and fringe festivals in the summer; Carnival and Pride in August; food festival in September, White Night in October, and other smaller festivals scattered in various pockets of the city, all through the year.
And just in case your notion of a holiday is about visiting places of historical importance and grandeur -- because admittedly, the Pavillion is not quite the Angkor Vat -- hang on. Virginia Woolf’s farmhouse is just two stations away at Charleston, and just another bus ride away is Rudyard Kipling’s country retreat at Burwash. The South Downs of Sussex intercept Brighton all throughout creating a bunch of exciting hikes and trails and some spectacular spots like Devil’s Dyke and Seven Sisters, which are row of seven cliffs that extend into the white cliffs of Dover.
And while you’re at it, why not walk through the bohemian North Laines, and then float into the very contrasting world of the posh South Lanes. Also check out the Royal Pavillion, which, now that I think about it, is the most apt symbol for Brighton. It defies traditional notions of beauty and aesthetics, and epitomizes inclusiveness. If you’re Brightoned enough, you might actually start to like it a little.
And if you’re fully Brightoned, you’ll love Brighton for what it is, not for the London it could be, or the Barcelona it almost is.
