My Kind of Town: It turns out I’d rather live somewhere tolerant than somewhere beautiful

Buildings.

Words
William Smalley

 

I thought beauty was it. That you could list the materials you’d be happy to be surrounded by, quantify the height (vertigo is relevant), density and mix of use that would make the perfect place. Triangulate climate, proximity to sea and, why not, ski slopes; calculate the number of independent cafes per capita, the quantum of modern art. But it turns out I’d simply rather live somewhere tolerant – indifferently so as London feels – than somewhere beautiful.

I thought my ideal town, village really, was my patch of Holborn (Bloomsbury if showing off, but it isn’t really) in central London. Like much of London it’s a bit of a mess to look at, not particularly beautiful if not actually ugly. A strange little piece of town where the local streets are owned by an old public school, a benign landlord, so everyone rents and many have stayed for years (I’ve been here 12). You can’t walk down the street without saying or nodding hello to a neighbour, we have a doctor and dentist, a florist and undertaker, a nursery and primary school (and our very own village gossip).

At the moment I feel a foreigner at home – a citizen of nowhere”

My street’s become known for independent men’s clothes stores, making clothes buying easy, if every trip to the local store (we have one of those too) potentially expensive. I guess a lido would be nice, and a closer park to walk the dog. It’s a proper village. It just happens to be one where you can walk to the National Gallery or Tate Modern, or up to St Pancras to take a train to Paris or Provence. What could be better than that?

But at the moment I feel a foreigner at home – a citizen of nowhere. The country I grew up in and the city I live in suddenly a different place. I was born a year after the UK joined the EEC; I am a political European. It says so on my passport. And then suddenly we are not to be, and no-one represents me. My passport lies. I am homeless.

And so, as it happens, I have been wondering where to move to, and how bad it has to get before you have to go. Hitler closing down the Bauhaus was probably a pretty clear sign for Gropius to get the hell out. Are a tolerance of intolerance, second-rate leaders spouting second-rate thinking sufficient signage? How many actually homeless people on the streets do you have to trip over, uncared for and unnoticed, before you live in a society you don’t want to be a part of?

My kind of town would probably be in Scandinavia, but warmer, and a bit less boring. Edinburgh, where I studied for five years, was beautiful, but cold and very dark in winter, and I am a sun-lover. I’m writing this sitting at breakfast in downtown New York, looking out over buildings packed together as tightly and tall-ly as they can be, and I need a break already. This isn’t my ideal town. I went to check out Amsterdam, but it was a bit small, and half the centre is given over to tourism. Tourism kills a place. Plus I don’t like the smell of weed. So that wasn’t it. Italy looks and sounds nice but I’m not sure it passes the tolerance-ometer these days.

I’ve been trying to book a summer break for August, somewhere quiet, near the sea and in the sun. What could be nicer? But the thought of a holiday place out of holiday time makes me feel sad. I’m not sure I’d last a winter. Sydney’s a hell of a long way, and I don’t like long flights. So back to London then. A place belonging to a larger culture. Where a sense of modernity is the norm, and with a shared politics that is above party pettiness. I’d like to stay in London, Europe, please.