Monday, 20 June 2011

Here I am,

sniffling in bed, atop an antiseptic loft in a claustrophobic city. It is exactly as bad and sinister as I had worried it would be. There are no beggars, no filth, no pollution, no sound. The streets are neatly lined, with palm trees trapping humidity, one mall blending into another until the horizon stretches with massive testimonies to what man can do with concrete and money. There is no life, no spark, no vibe. A massive crowd of dead-eyed people amble through lit passageways and look at display windows, unenthusiastically and uninspiredly. It might be the mecca of all shoppers everywhere, but I will be damned if any designer could derive any inspiration whatsoever from this cosmetic urban nightmare.

I hate it here.

I walked home, taking detour after detour, hoping to find some redeeming factor. The wharf was a joke. I saw well dressed drunkards rifling through trashcans. Muted laughter, people looking bored.

I don't even want to think and compare this to Spain, or Italy... or no, I can't bear to mention my favourite city in the whole world.

What it's done is, it has made me suddenly see a certain charm in my own country. It may not be as safe, or convenient, or clean, but I would take that over this any damn day.

I am anxious to get out of this place and travel to Mexico, say or Peru, or Russia, to erase the memories of having come and lived here.