Saturday, July 8

Bitten by Brighton










I remember being very puzzled when Pat, Mack, Sam and Ann, the cartoon protagonists of my primary school English textbook, went to the beach. I was something like 11 and deeply fascinated, because proper big-scale beaches were a completely alien concept to me. Norway's seaside cities are more about fisheries, ships or oil; to go swimming and be amused we head for small and amateurical beaches outside of town.






This is perhaps why, one week after our expedition to Brighton, I am still incredibly elated by the vastness of Brighton's seafront, not to mention its corollary, a fascinating culture of amusement indulgence.









Streets run straight from the railway station down towards the sea, as if Brighton's just sitting there waiting for a massive invasion of ocean worshippers. The endless, rocky beach is their destination, the sun is their god. To cool down, the sun-cravers drift to the pier and go teddy-shooting with ice cream in one hand, fish and chips in the other.




Deeper into the bowels of Brighton, Italian alley restaurants wait impatiently for visitors to start craving for food. Above their heads everpresent, arrogant seagulls, heads set at funny angles, monitor the goings-on from every corner and pole.






Two things struck me as supernaturally beautiful about Brighton. First, Brighton's Royal Pavillion, hiding deep in a lush park, like a bewildered Taj Mahal of the British coast.



Next, the twin piers, one very alive - its twin a burnt-out island of charcoal, left some way out in the sea like surreal piece of art. I was taken by the utter creepiness of the sight; a bit like the feeling I had when holidaying on Thailand's eastern beaches right after the tsunami had struck. This pier seemed like a massive snake in the paradise of relaxation.






Margunn, her brother John Torvald and I could hardly leave Brighton, which is probably why we missed the last train home. Resisting a friendly policeman's advice to "stay and enjoy the night until the first morning train", we risked our lives speeding to Gatwick in a minicab to catch a train there. But at £13.50 we'll surely be back any day.






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