A few weeks ago I wrote about my trip back to my home city.
Aside the dog shit – that other Londoner’s have told me that they agree and is
one of their main bug bares – I wrote about vistas and views across the city.
There was a story that I couldn’t fit in. That didn’t fit
quite in place.
So here it is…
More England
Not speaking to other’s only reaches number five of a Time
Out tube etiquette.
Heading up the Old Kent Road, we were discussing the
relative (minimal) merits of The Shard, Cheese Grater and Walkie Talkie (“Talkie
Walkie”… for any French readers). I’m not keen on any but would plump for The
Shard if I had to. Just based on its blunt scale and fact that the view from
the top would be incredible; but even so I do not believe it has any elegance,
or style. It is just a shard of steel and glass. Nothing more.
Ignoring the square mile, I was far more excited by the
clear view of The BT Tower you get as you head up the Old Kent Road. I’d never
seen it from here before. Completely separate to the rest of London’s skyline
it still stands isolated, alone and beautiful.
And this is where a sheepish, fellow passenger waded in to
agree with me.
His voice stammered, slightly, as he stated that he also
thought that the BT Tower was the greatest building in London.
Which it is.
Obviously.
Our fellow passenger was so shocked at his own interjection and
breaching of the most basic bus rules, he immediately rang the bell, stood up
and - rightly - alighted the bus. I mean, where did he think he was? Yorkshire?
"This is London. Keep your eyes to the grounds and mush shut and everyone will ignore you."
I imagine that he tore his soul apart as he waited for
the next bus and continued his journey. Punishing himself before the City could
punish him for his inexcusable social faux par (or "gaffe"… for any English
readers).
Anyway. I digress.
The BT Tower is fifty years old but it still looks like the
future. It looks more alien and futuristic than any of the other buildings that
have popped up across London through the intervening years. Canary Wharf, Tower
42, The Shard, the bloody Walkie Talkie.
I guess that the only competition would be The Gherkin. But
that has been drowned and near obliterated by the “size” and “height” of more
recent developments and now seems lost. It is, also, beautiful but I feel that
it less unique. I cannot think of a tower elsewhere to rival the BT Tower’s design
whereas the Torre Agbar down near Las Glorias in Barcelona always feels so
similar to “The Gherkin” that they feel like cousins. To me, it lessens its
impact and originality.
Yes. The BT Tower. That will always stand out to me as the “one”.
To me… It is London.
…
…
…
But this is where it all fades out and comes to nothing. It doesn't go anywhere.
But I want it to.
My PC is getting filled up with false starts about the BT
Tower and how it’s impact on me from childhood to date. I have so many ideas,
so many disassociated events that seem to link back to it directly or
indirectly. I have so much to share but I cannot get down.
This is one of the key reasons that I didn't post for so
many weeks across January. I was stuck in an epic with no start, no middle and definitely
no end. I had sleepless nights with it rattling around my head. I kid you not.
I could not sleep thinking about the BT Tower!
I need inspiration. I need to find a way to get through it.
So this sits as a teaser of sorts. Something that is out
there. Something public. Something that will make me complete my task.
Alternatively, this will amount to the straw that broke the
camel’s back and I will drown in an abyss of BT Towerness… of nonsense.
One day.
Soon. Or later. Time will tell.
I know it sounds painfully pretentious but hope it’s interesting. Perhaps it'll be funny, too. I hope. I truly do.
Upon my return to the Kingdom, a degree of reintegration was
required. A degree of relearning.
Of re-engaging.
Routines and patterns were soon re-established. I’m paid to
be here. You do what you do. Get up, go to work, make time for the gym, shop,
cook and eat. Easy.
Life.
But something was missing. Something wasn't feeling right.
Not living.
On a Wednesday evening, I realised what it was. I’d stopped
exploring. I’d stopped learning about the town that I was living in. I was
falling into a rut. It had been so, since earlier in the year. One of the key
reasons to make the step over to this part of the World was to see something
different, somewhere alien to me. To be excited by it. To learn.
Thankfully, the realisation didn't occur while lying bored,
tired, lazy and depressed on my sofa but while strolling into town to go
shopping. I’d forgotten how the town changes after dark.
The crowds. The noise. The bustle. The light. The colour.
It’s a different World. People come out to play. The souks, shopping centres and side
markets are full. People peruse the lines of shirts that stretch for blocks in
the open air. 90% polyester, they crackle and crack as they are pushed, pulled
and pawed. Illegal stalls hawk wares from carpets and cloths set out on the
roadside. The restaurants – so many restaurants – fill and fight for custom.
Traffic fills the street. Mostly static, the sound of horns fills the air and
it takes a degree of bravery and/blind stupidity to weave across the roads.
And this is multiplied by ten on a Friday.
And I love it.
As usual, no photos can really do it justice. But I do try…
Coffee
There is a café on The Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques
Road. The night I caught it, there was no-one there. On a night when football
is showing, they set up a giant screen in the street behind and lay out plastic
patio furniture. It’s never mobbed but always busy. A sea of faces staring at a
TV screen that is invisible from the main street.
Bathing in Blue
I stumbled over this residential building bathed in blue
light. It called from afar, partially covered and concealed by trees further
down the road. As I got close, I realised that it is just a standard block of
apartments and that the blue light has nothing to do with it. A hotel/apartment
block opposite has blue neon advertising on its roof. The basking blue light on
the residential block is just light pollution. All the shutters were closed
shut. I’m not surprised. I used to live on Hounslow High Street one Christmas. We had
no curtains. The multi-purpose Diwali and Christmas lights were a menace for
three months.
Neon Wonderland. For Sale. Anything. Everything!
Old Concrete
Street lighting is far from ideal. The streets are quite
dark. Much of the glow comes from the heavy handed signage carried by many
retailers and from lights from private residential blocks. It works. It looks
good.
Watch & Light
There is an obsession with watches.
The Souks are full of watch shops and stalls who are always
keen to talk to me. I’d suggest that they notice that I never have a watch on
my bare arms and see me as a likely customer, but I am a realist. They see me
as an American or European with more money than sense, so want me to share.
I’ve worn a watch once since 2006. I was told to in the
Spring of 2007. I’d been late for a couple of meetings at work and it was noted
that I didn’t have a watch.
I listened to the advice but it stopped. It was a sign. I
was vindicated. I never intend to wear a watch again.
Red Light Spells Danger. Money will be spent here!
The reason I was out on a Wednesday night.
Some people will recall that I have an obsession with
stationery items. It’s as if, somewhere deep inside my psyche, there is a
teenage girl trapped. Her voice can only be heard in Paperchase or Staples or
Rymans.
Jarir Bookstore is just as dangerous.
I may go there to buy computer supplies and stuff, but I
will always leave with a new pen… and some colourful post it notes… or
something. Anything!
So I have tried to get out and explore, more. Retracing my
steps of the evening in daylight on a deathly quiet Friday morning as the
population geared up for midday prayers.
American School Buses. When they are past their "use by" date in the US they are shipped off around the World. Khobar is full of them. Owned and used to transport labour from accommodation blocks to workplaces. On a Friday, they rest.
Prince Faisal Bin Fahd Road From old to new.
Prince Faisal Too... A view from a colleagues office looking back down toward the old Pepsi Cola factory, The Meridian Hotel and sea beyond.
Flowers and traffic on Prince Turki Street
The road names mean little to me. I know them because they
are listed on Google Maps. No-one appears to navigate by road names. Everything
is decided by their closeness to landmarks; the older the better. Most people
know “Silver Tower”. If they don’t, I drop back to the “Old Pepsi Cola
Factory”. It’ll get me on the right road…
Pepsi Cola were one of the first American giants to invest and fund development in the town. This is the remnants of the advertising on their old factory. It remains a landmark.
The local Tamimi Market store has a series of old
photographs of the town taken over the past thirty or forty years showing
Khobar’s humble beginnings as a small fishing town, the addition of King Fahd
University (Petroleum & Chemicals) and expansion as a thriving city. I live
on the edge of the old town. Few buildings are above four storeys. They are a
uniform sandy grey. Most show signs of wear and tear. Steel, breeze block and
concrete construction shows its age quite quickly. You can see the original
districts, of residential, shopping and industry. As a geographer, the town
planning is obvious once you can work out where the boundaries were. But,
increasingly, the boundaries are becoming blurred as vacant blocks are turned
into whatever can turn a profit.
Old Khobar is slowly being regenerated. Lost. New buildings,
better utility provision. New roads, underpasses and bridges. The town feels
like a near permanent building site. The old is making way for the new.
Another street dug up and cables being relaid.
Sofitel. Modern out of dust.
The rubble of a demolished building in the old town. Scrub beginning to take hold.
Fouad Centre All the food you can eat.
Artificial lake on the Corniche. Landscaped gardens on the seafront.
Mosque Gold surrounded by a dusty wasteland and cricket on Friday afternoons.
Municipal Art Hope. Inspiration and Pride. Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques Road
I’m liking the mix. The transition. Khobar feels lived in.
Rough around the edges but with a pride and determination to move forwards. To
change shape. To grow up. To become a swan.
A couple of weeks ago, I went out to Half Moon Bay. I’d been
told about it since I was here back from day one. It offers a chance to take in
the “seaside” in a Saudi way.
Obviously, it’s more car heavy than in the Europe. Although
some provision is made for parking and for beach huts (concrete shelters where
families can keep out of the sun and barbecue meat, most of the beaches are a
free for all. Cars are driven to the sea front across the sand. Afterall, it’s
where the desert meets the sea.
Yellow, orange, and blue. Ridge and furrow. Light and dark. Check out the litter, though. It's everywhere.
Salt flats and dunes. Compacted by the wheels of so many cars.
Way back, I posted some pictures of the desert taken en
route to Riyadh. A friend sarcastically noted that they didn’t hold the romance
of the Lawrence of Arabia images that they have of the desert. And in the most
part, that is a true reflection of what I see. The desert is just that. It is
deserted. It is big and bleak and lifeless. No romance. But, I get that there
is something magical about the formation of dunes. Far from the biggest in the
World, Half Moon Bay does – at least – allow a slightly more romantic version.
The front is loaded with temporary market stalls. Clothing.
Food. Anything. Like Khobar, the place bustles. Adults relax next to their cars,
wind breaks allow family privacy… Apart from the cars, it all feels familiar to
me. Kids play. Pony and Camel rides. Bouncy Castles and quad bikes.
Quad and Bouncy Castles. It was refreshing to see that girls were included in the driving games... Make the most of it while you can!
A guide supports a child on a pony. The camel carried a parent. I love the composition of this shot. Simple but effective.
And still, I cannot believe my luck that I live by the sea.
Beautiful.
Looking South
Hot Beach Action. A man named Francis contemplates the nature of life, love, happiness and sex. Mostly, though he was contemplating the art of taxi driving.
OK. Not Half Moon Bay. This is the view toward Bahrain a few nights ago at dusk. I love the water colour textures and near invisible horizon.
A few weeks ago, while I was over in the UK, my uncle passed
away. He had been suffering from cancer; his death was not unexpected.
But it was still a shock and a shame.
I toasted his memory in a pub in London with my friends.
Today, he will be cremated. Only in England could the
process of a cremation and funeral be complicated and delayed by road works,
but that is the way it is over on Tyneside this year.
I cannot be there. Newcastle upon Tyne is long way away from
home. But it doesn't mean that I cannot spare a few thoughts.
Back in my childhood. In the spring of the year that The
Stranglers released “Black and White”, I visited Newcastle for the first time.
It is the first memories I have of my cousins, my aunt and my uncle. I know that
I had met them before, but this is the first time that I recall being with
them.
I was in awe of my uncle. He was physically imposing,
confident, bold and funny. He was also caring. I recall feeling safe around
him. He drove a Citroen DS with its “self leveling suspension”. I was smitten.
We stayed in the suburbs of Newcastle for a few days before
we headed north into Northumberland. To Beadnell. I stayed in a caravan for the
first of only two times in my life… I don’t like caravans… I was young enough
to see it as the most incredible adventure.
I have memories of trips out into the countryside, but my
key memory was of the afternoon that my uncle took my father, my brother and I
out in the small boat – a sailing dinghy - that – I believe – he co-owned.
My memory may be wrong, but it was a blue. Therefore, it was
blue! I don’t know if it had a name, but I will call it "Estonia".
I was scared. If you've not seen the North Sea, it rarely
looks comforting. It’s not a flat, azure pool. It always looks choppy. To me,
mostly it is green grey and rough looking. I was a little kid, I was petrified.
Please excuse my nautical terminology. I know nothing of
sailing except this experience and an adventure watching turtles on a pedalo in
Zakinthos.
The boat was small. Space for no more than four or five
people. I remember the instructions that my uncle gave us before we set sail. I
recall the cold of the water as I set off to climb aboard. I recall my uncle taking
me in his arms to lift me into the craft. And I recall the excitement and the
fear…
Once out into the sea, my uncle started to show off. He
started to have fun.
The balance of such a small boat is delicate. Given my poor
physics knowledge, I guess – I reckon – that the tight turns that the craft are
capable of are dependent on the efficient shifting of weight to counter the
wind against the sail. The weight of its occupants prevents the boat tipping
over. That sounds reasonable, doesn't it?
So, my uncle starts to perform tight turns on the water. My
brother and father are having to wait for his command to move from side to
side. They scramble left to right - is that port to starboard... I don't know - trying to avoid to boom as it twisted and
turned searching to catch the wind. Neither my brother nor father have ever
been the most athletic or agile. I remember them seeming to crack their heads
on the boom each time they were forced to move. My uncle worked them hard.
And all the while, I was sat at the back of the boat, out of
the way. I had been instructed not to move, not to touch anything but to hold
on tight.
As my brother and father stumbled around the boat,
apparently at my uncle’s whim, I started to find it funny. And I remember my
uncle catching my eye. He smiled as I giggled and giggled and giggled as my
family jumped at his “Captain’s” commands. And that look will never leave me. I
saw a caring, warmth alongside a wicked glint of fun.
Over the years our family have had their ups and downs. Good
and bad. Details too personal to share online. Communication between myself and
my aunt and uncle drifted away to near nothing after the late 1990’s.
I thought that the biggest shock I would face would be the
weather. I had, essentially, lived in summer from April 2014 until January
2015. Al Khobar and England are incredibly different in February. I’d watched
the weather change on the weather websites with a sense of foreboding.
I didn't fancy the cold at all.
But the cold is just something that you get used to.
And it wasn’t too bad. I was expecting to be near foetal when
I walked out of Terminal 4 without a coat to jump my lift back to Oxfordshire.
It was dawn. It was a suitably uninspiring grey day. Damp. Dank. But not so
cold. It was OK.
Somewhere on the M40. Cold. Grey. Damp. Dank. England Oh England.
I accept that the cold eventually got to me a few days later.
There was a moment around 10pm one Tuesday. I walked up to Hornsey from Crouch
End in the frost and ice with a shiver that was on the edge of turning into
dance and teeth chattering to the point where conversation was uncontrollably
retarded. This was the point where I stopped dead and demanded Lukey tell me
why people accepted living in such ridiculous and uninviting cold environments.
Beyond that and a moment where I had to duck into a Costa Coffee to grab a hot
chocolate to thaw on the north side of Kew Bridge, the cold never really got to
me.
What shocked me most was the dog shit.
It is everywhere.
I noticed it in Bloxham, where I holed up for a few days
before heading back to London. Then Hornsey and Peckerwell seemed to be covered
in it. Later in my trip, the area around Deptford Bridge seemed to be even
worse.
You don’t get it in Al Khobar. You don’t get dogs.
Well, you do… but the dogs you see are semi-wild and they
stay away from you as much as you stay away from them. Dogs are not kept as
pets over here. No one walks them around town so there is no shite to clear up.
Don’t get me wrong, Al Khobar is untidy. In parts, it’s
filthy. But not with excrement. Give me food waste and building materials any
day. Dog shit is – well –is just shit.
It annoyed me. Irrationally.
After a few days, I was becoming used to it. I moved on. I
found other things to prickle; to aggravate.
Victoria, for instance.
I’ve never been keen on that part of town. I’d guess,
because it is purely functional. It is not a destination, is it? How many times
have you dreamed up a great night out in Victoria? How many times have you
thought… “Oh. I fancy meeting a friend for lunch. Victoria. That sounds like an
exciting Central London location to meet.”?
NB - See the little note at the bottom, where I admit to arranging to meet someone in Victoria.
Exactly!
You pass through. You move on.
But I seemed to find myself there, all too often. Dragging
my luggage down Buckingham Palace Road to renew my Saudi visa; dragging my
luggage up from Peckham to meet friends in the John Lewis Head Office bar (don’t
get excited… it feels like a Travelodge); dragging my luggage across the
station to grab a cab to St James Park; waiting for a friend at the end of
platform one as a cold started to form; fighting my way into Boots to get
medicine to fight said cold and; finally, battling crowds to retrieve my
passport from Buckingham Palace Road, again.
I was away for close on three weeks. I swear that I spent
two of them trying to find my way around Victoria’s road works.
I see that the road works will be in place until 2018. I
wouldn’t have noticed, except I stopped to take a picture of two Italians in
front of the hoardings in the bus station. No idea why they wanted to pose
there; I had neither the language skills nor desire to know. But it did get me
thinking. Perhaps they are regulars and they need something constant to measure
themselves as they age. It is plausible and quite possible that, if I had
wasted more time there, I would have seen families arriving from Burgess Hill,
Whyteleafe and East Grinstead to measure their kid’s heights. The hoardings
around the “walk way” near the bus station having been in situ so long that
they have been using them over the past years to record their children’s growth
spurts in the same way that the door frame to the kitchen was marked in my
childhood home.
As an aside. As I was typing that, I began to wonder when
all the dates and marks labelled “Alex” and “Sir” on the kitchen door frame showing
our growth rates were removed. My head says that we must have redecorated while
I still lived there and that they were lost many, many years before we moved
out. But, my heart hopes that they were still visible when the next home owners
arrived. If it was the latter, I regret not adding two final measures to record
“Sir, age 19” and “Alex, age 23”.
Don’t get me wrong, though. I didn’t spend three weeks in
England in a state of depression. I saved that for the days following my return
to Saudi Arabia. Three weeks was long enough that it allowed me to realise just
how much I miss my family and friends but short enough that it flew. It
absolutely flew.
England inspired me. England is beautiful.
It was wonderful to allow myself to visit London as a
tourist. All be it a really well informed and “cool” tourist, but a tourist
just the same. I was blessed. Friends, intentionally or unintentionally, were
able to show me things that I had never seen. Places that I had never visited
or never knew. My mental maps of the city were challenged. I explored places on
foot that I had never had time to find.
I took in a few places that I don’t really know. Crouch End,
Camberwell and Blackheath. I got to revisit places from my past, like Upper
Street, Bethnal Green Road and Hanwell. And old favourites like Barnes and
Brentford and Hammersmith. I even got a few minutes in Harrow to be told all about
hypertension and discuss my hopeless caffeine habit.
What sticks with me most, though, were the skylines.
Now, I can wax lyrical about the impressive nature of the Dubai
skyline forever. Regardless of how I feel about Dubai generally – I’m not it’s
greatest fan… I don’t like really like plastic – I cannot deny it’s sheer scale
and audacity.
Wow. Wow Squared. Not taken from an aeroplane.
A view I once caught of it from an aeroplane taking off over the sea
will remain one of the most awe inspiring and remarkable sights I have ever
seen. Dubai really does just appear out of a desert… Mile upon mile of nothing
and, then “Bang!”, there it is, just “there”. Jagged, angular and huge. Wow.
Wow squared.
But London is my home. London cannot be beaten.
You can get pulled into the classic views. Of Waterloo
Bridge, Hungerford Bridge and the stunning vista’s that you can get from the
South Bank. And you should. They live up to everything that has been written
about them in poem, prose or song.
I spent a wonderful Sunday afternoon with my brother and Rosie poking
around between Tower and Westminster Bridges in glorious winter sunshine. Art,
shopping, life, living and a really expensive gin cocktail to die for. I will
level with you. I’ve visited a fair few cities that have captured my
imagination, heart or soul but that part of London on its day – Southwark…
pronounced “Suth-uck”… - is damned hard to beat.
Picture Postcard London
Gull
Gin with a homemade lime cordial that made you squint.
All infused with hops for extra "floweryness".
Heavenly.
But what I really loved to find again, were the views that
creep up on you. The ones that are not expected. The view from the railway viaduct
between Kilburn and West Hampstead on the Metropolitan line or the view of the
planes heading into Heathrow you get on Barnes Bridge station. They are the
views I crave and that I love. The ones that are known by the locals and are
missed from the guide books. Those are the ones that I miss. And, by venturing
into parts of town that I don’t really know, I got to see some more.
There are too many to single out, so I will note the luck I
had with my accommodation.
Jodie’s flat up in Hornsey that allowed me to look out over the
old church at Hornsey and Alexandra Palace rising up above.
Toe’s spare room that allowed a view of the city and – if you
know what to look for – the top of Tower Bridge. All from Peckham/Camberwell
borders.
My brother’s spare room overlooking London Bridge’s railway
tracks with the awful Walkie Talkie and Cheese Grater over the river.
And Alex’s living room over Deptford Creek and DLR with a
vista right across the city, Elephant & Castle, Stockwell and - if you pay close attention - the beautiful BT Tower.
Over Deptford Creek
Back in Al Khobar, I am left with memories that are gold, or
oil or whatever commodity hasn’t had the arse fall out of its value yet. I was
born in London. I have lived most of my life within its boundaries. I love and
loathe the place with equal measure. It has treated me well and badly. And I
know it will always be there for me. At the end of a three thousand mile plane
ride, it will welcome me.
I shall be back. Quite soon. And I will fall in love with it
all over again.
But first...
First, I shall be visiting Bristol.
My future home.
Note – OK. Admission time...
I do remember a really enjoyable lunch date that
I had in Victoria, once. And I chose the venue. And it was in living memory,
too. There is/was a really good little, independent café down on Wilton Road
(?) where I waited an age for someone in a scarlet red coat and shared parsnip
cake. Or courgette cake. Or something that wasn’t carrot cake. Whatever it was,
it was good but it doesn’t really matter. In truth, I was only there for the
company. xx
