It's Saturday. January. Cold but sunny. I’ve found a comfortable space in the sunlight for afternoon tea. The woods are eerily silent, serving as a stark contrast to the email that I've just received. A rotation of memories - pictures in acidic hues and lopsided angles - flash across my screen from several years and one pandemic ago. A vision of a different dirty blonde; slimmer with better health, an attitude that could manifest empires, and who’d knock back more rum than any Pirate to ever have existed.
The onscreen pictures captured a typical night out in Soho, London. It’s strange to think of how long ago my transatlantic move was, and how London seems to have moved on without me. Soho, for those who might not know, is an incredible place for misfits, castaways, and creatives. It’s a shared space of sex workers living beneath halos of neon light, and rainbow people who gather to celebrate love – and lust - without restrictions. Not forgetting the Soho priest, who glares over all beneath him with utter despair. Or perhaps envy.
Soho is a magnificent circus. In many ways, it raised me; teaching me how to hold my drink, hold my nerve, and hold my expectations. These are three important lessons if you're going to become a Sohoian. Amongst all lessons taught, Soho mastered the arts of pleasure and temptation. Yet there's more to Soho than just the layered ruffles of indulgence; she homes the displaced, providing a community for people that society has long since demonized, those branded as immoral delinquents and social outcasts. Soho, the collector of discarded trinkets. It’s true that if your life label reads adventurer then Soho is the destination for you. A wonderland of vices catering to the creative, the bizarre, the peculiar, and the illicit. Soho is, after all, an exceedingly generous Madame.
The pictures of my friend and I, devouring trendy cocktails, became more interesting once I stumbled across a picture of Tahzi: An Arabian Prince twice removed. The sequence of colorful noises conjured the memory as if no time had passed; my friend and I smoking hookah and drinking whiskey cocktails before being joined by the Arabian Prince. Tahzi’s bearded face was enthusiastically alight. It isn't until now, all these years on, that I realize just how enthusiastic. Scrolling through the pictures of a fashionista (me), a chic-goth (friend), and the bearded Prince (Tahzi), two things spring to mind:
1. The supposed Prince had amazingly bright teeth. Illuminating, in fact. I don't recall ever seeing teeth quite as white before, and they unnerve me now as much as they did back then.
2. The (faux) Prince picked up our bar tab. A decision he soon regretted as my friend and I were still parked at Villa Sober, despite being on our seventh cocktail. He smiled less, disappointment replacing some of the allure that he initially considered us to have. Foolish man! We were trained in Soho by Soho for the destiny of alcohol Olympics. What was he thinking?
There is something else I recall, too. The Arabian Prince claimed to be married to one Princess Jasmine of Baghdad, who supposedly sported mauve eyes. I didn't interrupt him to express that Aladdin is one of my all-time favorite Disney flicks, or to question whether Jasmine knew of a Jafar, who had a talking parrot named Iago. Instead, it was my turn to smile a little too big, weirding the prince out. We parted ways soon after; maybe it was my enlarged smile, or maybe it was because he discovered that my friend and I both belonged to the alphabet soup and that he wasn’t going to get any action - no matter how much alcohol he supplied.
All the best tales happen in Soho at sundown. As the cursor transitions through a gallery of blurry eyes, smudged lipstick, lost shoes, and one gained traffic cone, I'm left with an overwhelming desire for eggplant parmigiana. Amid its flamboyant taboos, Soho is an exciting square of culinary wonders that holds its own against the vast backdrop of entertainment. With late-night restaurants and twenty-four-hour cafés, there’s always a table you’re welcome at. Besides, you get drunk in Soho, you get sober in Soho. Those are the rules.
I remember another night when we rave kids had strolled into Soho after a Skunk Anansie gig at Astoria, debating whether to sober up with breakfast at the Italian joint or continue to party. It was 3 a.m. so the debate was a short one. We knew we had a whole life of greasy spoons ahead of us, but not of glowsticks and sweaty dancefloors. That's another lesson from Soho. One that she lets you discover on your own, for it's the most painful one. While Soho may be a delicious spell, as one gets older, one suddenly outgrows the famed square that's hidden in plain sight behind Piccadilly Circus.
I recall the fateful night when I died in Saturday's stilettos. My friends and I were huddled around a ridiculously small table at a Lebanese drinking hole, bejeweled in mosaic and candlelight, while downing Sambuca shots off the chest of a Drag Queen named Cinderfella. The conversation ended up dividing the group between those who were going to camp it up at Astoria with Minogue, and those who were fetish bound (excuse the pun) for Torture Gardens. I, a loyal patron of TG, looked upon my sore feet that were squashed into six-inch heels and sighed.
The truth was, I longed to be in my slippers. More than that, I yearned to be home watching Doctor Who reruns while devouring an enormous slab of chocolate. As someone who could be found in Soho most evenings for over a decade of decadence, I was suddenly wanting to retire. It was an uncomfortable realization that made me feel an entire whirlwind of… something. Something odd, uneasy, and unpleasant. And most definitely something so very sad.
The following day was Sunday and I had planned on visiting the orchid exhibition at Kew Gardens. I didn't want to go with a sore head. That was a new experience in my life too – hangovers. They arrived with a milestone birthday, arriving as an uninvited gate crasher, and like with all dedicated parasites, it decided to stay despite my protest. In between sore feet and not wanting to drink any more than I already had, I realized that Soho and I had faced our very best - and our very worst - years together. But the algorithm had suddenly expired.
As it happened, I persevered and danced fatigued feet into Sunday morning. I slept at my friend's house, along with the strangers we had accumulated hours beforehand, including Cinderfella. Once we had all stirred awake sometime Sunday afternoon, my friend reintroduced her guests to Boho: the speckled rabbit that she bought while we all rode the night bus home. Boho - sold by a self-proclaimed hippie called Luke “Magic” Davis - was an absolute beauty. That’s another of Soho’s rules: you never know what you’ll buy when in her square mile; pythons, nipple tassels, authentic death masks, urine, and of course, rabbits.
To date, Soho and I have been separated for seven long years. An almost decade. I think of the square often, especially as my social media streams with friends socializing in all my coves of familiarity. Naturally, I'm going to return one day - everyone returns to Soho sooner or later - but I'm returning as a grown-up. It's true that I still have my extravagant collection of stilettos, but it's also true that they're boxed away in storage. Much like the rest of my Soho days. Emails, such as the one received today, are beautiful souvenirs of a past-life and a past-self lived, awakening the deepest dimples in my cheeks. Although these moments urge homesickness for a time in my life that doesn't exist anymore, these bitesize snippets of nostalgia are nice keepsakes. More than that, they’re a reminder that there was life before COVID and that soon – hopefully – there will be new life once again.
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