Getting kicked out of the Schengen Area meant I would be evicted quite widely. My options were basically Morocco, Lichtenstein, or out of the region entirely (requiring quite a bit of money shuffling back and forth to the upcoming festivals in England).
Mr. Hat is an old-school Brummie and in leaving Berlin I knew that I craved the social familiar rather than start all over again. The perks of moving to Birmingham meant being here during the shows surrounding the Supersonic Festival, exploring a parallel universe Detroit (complete with abandoned factories), PLUS (and possibly most importantly) the rain-laden UK weather would ensure I get quite a bit of work done. Careful what you wish for.
People here seem to go out with purpose, rather than out to be out. Young women in tiny skirts and towering heels queuing up for bad music down Broad street. Pubs filled to capacity while sidewalks feel eerily empty. A surprising number of burkas worn by women wheeling groceries and textiles from market to home. I’m not sure if “hanging out” on the street indicates trouble or invites it, but it feels a bit odd coming from Berlin where hanging out is a legitimate career path.
The eye contact is something I’m having to unlearn. Germans are notorious for their stare-downs; I found myself locking eyes with everything from open windows to animals on the street. Here things are quite the opposite – a few seconds gazing too long and you could very well end up on the other end of a Scottish handshake. It does feel a bit like I'm getting some of my public privacy back. Oh right, the cameras.
I’ve been here two weeks and I haven’t written about Birmingham yet because I haven’t really connected with her yet. I met the social circle of Mr. Hat which has been quite nice, starting things off with a good group of tight-knit people. The CS meet-up was quite fun, though many of the “what brought you here” questions came with notes of “why would you ever come here”. Defense for this city is very much “it’s not THAT bad”, which I find to be an amusing peak to any scale.
I was walking in the direction of home alongside a character in his late-40s: a Laibach fanatic in every sense of the word – this opinionated industrial 96%-man-4%-monster fled Portland many years ago and never looked back. We were having a nice conversation heading through the vacant city center as we approached a group of quite young girls in various body shapes all Britney Spears-ed up. The diminutive leader of the pack sneered as we passed, her opener of “oh don’t you two look so cute together” marked the beginning of baited line after baited line, seeking only to emasculate us in front of her hesitant peers.
This was the Birmingham I was waiting for but it still saddened me how small town a city this size could be.
Last night my flatmate and I drove a bit out of town to an arts center housed in what looks like an old Victorian school complex. The folding tables and chairs made the space look more like a cheap cafe than a proper venue, the crowd was sparse with ages all over the place, but I’d heard some of The Miserable Rich and thought their abundance of strings would translate well live. I sampled a variety of the finest in old man Kentish ales while the mostly forgettable openers played. Once The Miserable Rich took stage this small strange space transformed completely. It was the kind of show where you are disappointed at the small turnout but feel selfishly privileged to be sharing a certain mutual presence with the performers. Witty lyrics, beautifully done, the audience enthralled, and it all felt so intimate.
Poodle was probably my favorite, a song about the relationship between England and America:
You say what game to play
and break all your own rules
You say what’s the song of the day
and we all sing your tune
and we follow, yes we follow... follow you down... too well
and we follow, yes we follow... hopelessly on into Hell.
I’m glad to have found a new definition of peak in this city below sea level.
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