Second chance spring.
The rocky shores of Brighton at dusk.
I guess I can try to describe how felt to be in Brighton, though I know that to flesh out how it really was, words will never suffice. This detour from London was, what, twenty-seven hours? And yet it felt like an eternity.
In short, Brighton was dreamy; in full—where do I even begin?
Perhaps I’ll start with what little I knew about the city—from (laughably) a Youtuber’s book series. I read the Girl Online series when I was ten, of which I vaguely remember the second book being set in Brighton. I didn’t give it much thought afterwards—besides remarking that wherever this city was, it seemed charming enough—and never would I have thought that nearly a decade later I’d be standing there, fully submerged in what once was merely a figment of my imagination.
Brighton—artsy and wild and free.
In reality, Brighton far surpassed anything my mind could have conjured up. It reminded me of Hanoi in many ways, all cafés tucked from sight and narrow alleyways, all dumb adolescent insolence in the form of bold graffitis. It was second nature to me.
The city was slumbering my first day there. The overcast sky was milky pale—tranquil if not pallid—and salt spray sprinkled the air like adding the finishing touches to a freshly-baked cookie. We skimmed over the streets then visited the pier, and even after a few stifled formalities and failed jabs at some claw machines, we still had a few hours to kill while waiting for a friend to arrive. Café-hopping had started to get old by the third one we entered. And so I suggested the only thing I know: geocaching.
The city had a surprising number of caches for its size, all within walking distances of each other, and each complete with a beautiful backdrop accompaniment. Grand churches. Sloping walkways. Tulips and roses and vine and ivy everywhere. If not for the excitement of finding treasures, merely these sights would have been enough to make my heart palpitate. Following some arbitrary coordinates, we stumbled around the city, tearing through countless street corners, fingers grazing by God knows how many spiders. In the end, we accrued seven cache finds in four hours—not too shabby if I do say so myself.
It was late by the time my friend showed up. We all grabbed food then headed home, but before bed, we scoured the city in search of bicycle cards to revive our middle school break-time traditions. I realised that our silly habits have transcended time and space, and it was sweet how we were now years and worlds away from when we used to innocently play cards in between homerooms and classes. I held onto that thought as I drifted to sleep that night.
The next morning—or should I say afternoon—it was raining. Thus, we decided to visit the museum downtown to escape from the barrage of midday dewdrops. We messed about for a bit, putting on various costumes and playfighting with plastic swords. The most fun and least educational of all the museum visits thus far in my life, I’m sure.
And then I stumbled upon a magnetic poetry station. Awestruck by the sweet simplistic calm this city had washed over me, I penned this from half-legible words on whiteboard tiles:
Salty kiss and tide
sea calling white sky
sunset, different night
Brighton saw me sigh.
The sky five hours apart, which inspired my (rather half-baked) poem. How could a city be so sombre and yet so lively?
When we left the museum, the clouds had miraculously parted. Syrupy sunlight began to pour through the cracks of the sky. So we hit up the pier once again.
It was breathtaking. The sea the previous day had stood benevolent and unforgiving, bellowing cold chills down my sweatshirt and whipping at the shore. But the next day, it blossomed before my eyes. The city and the sea gleamed as golden sundrops washed over us. In that moment, I felt that Brighton was most beautiful place I’ve ever set foot on.
The three of us sat on the rocky shore for a while, probing around for heart-shaped pebbles, hurling stones at the ocean in meaningless acts of defiance, and watching the cotton candy sunset swirling all around.
(Side note, I finally got that T2 sun ring I’ve been chasing after for forever; see photo no. 2.)
Brighton has this je ne sais quoi that I don’t think can ever be fully captured. How does one paint a portrait of—reign in—something as free as the raging winds, as ineffable as the misty sea? Every time I try, the city’s frisky charm and rolling tides pull me into enarmourment all over again. I would then begin to fawn over the different facets of the city, all seemingly newfound in my brain.
And that’s how I realised I’m in love with Brighton—equal parts pensive and romantic, perfectly sweet and savoury—everything I could have ever asked for in a city.
So now I write this with a note of finality, pushing Brighton out of my mind for the last time. This infactuation is not healthy. For the time being, I must resort to merely admiring Brighton from afar.
