thoughts on urban life

by Chi and Elena

Regardless of whatever TV drama you’re hooked on, it is usually the case that urban life is portrayed as the pinnacle of Western development. Cool things happen to cool people living in big cities, and those who were not born cool inevitably have coolness thrust upon them when they make the move to the Big Smoke. Cities offer an exciting, modern way of living, with adventures waiting behind every door (especially behind doors of blue police call boxes in London). Growing up in the sunny city of Brisbane, however, I often found myself trying to flee the sleepy silence of the suburbs, only to find that the monotonous cycle of Brisbane life continued in the CBD only with more steel and concrete. Why is society on the constant lookout for neverending forms of cultural stimulation? Could it be that our current situation leaves us wanting more?

THE SITUATION:

The most urban (and I’m basing my definition of ‘urban’ on the glorious reputations of the world’s more-admired cities) it gets here is the lazy Sharpie scrawl in public toilets promising a ‘good time’ if you call a certain number. In any city of the world locals are sure to have their favourite haunts or hang-outs. In Brisbane, your local haunt is everybody else’s local haunt. The square outside Hungry Jack’s is the universal meeting place of every teenager in Brisbane, north and south. “Meet me in the city!” you’d say to your friend, and they wouldn’t even need to ask where. Familiarity abounds – even our damn buskers are familiar. Just mention the blind sax guy and everyone will know who he is. Or the steel drums guy – “oh my God I love that guy!” – outside our beloved Treasury Casino that signals party time when the sun goes down with its snazzy neon tourist-trap lights flashing out over the river.

I remember last year on a typical sluggish day in the city, my friend Elena and I decided to go exploring. Perhaps we wanted to uncover some seedy underworld layer beneath the banal safeness of Queen Street Mall. Anyway, ‘exploring’ in Brisbane City is pretty much a lost cause, but we were two idealistic teenagers back then with a lust for adventure in our young hearts. We picked the most mysterious building we could find, entered a mysteriously empty lobby (what could they be hiding here? Dead bodies? Three-eyed dogs and radioactive hamsters? THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE??) and rebelliously took the lift up to the highest floor. We emerged into a mysterious corridor lined with doors – CLOSED DOORS, behind which no doubt lurked the darkest of secrets. When we saw that the doors had nameplates saying things like ‘Michael Phillips, M.D. Orthopaedic Surgeon’ and ‘Dr Julie Lee, Family Dentist’ we knew it was too dangerous to continue. Just as well – we nearly lost our lives on the way back. The elevator jerked and stalled halfway between Levels 15 and 14 and we thought we were done for. Luckily it didn’t stall for too long because then I wouldn’t be here, writing this brilliant piece.

This brush with Brisbanality only fuelled my dreams of getting out of here. A few months ago I re-watched Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. When Belle sang “There must be more than this provincial liiiiife!”  I knew exactly what my fellow bookworm was on about. I found it hard to believe Belle’s conviction, however – how on earth could she be bored in la belle Françe? I had clung to the hope that Brisbane was the exception and not the rule to the yawn-inducing quality of urban life. Was it possible that Belle’s philosophy was applicable to urban life ALL OVER THE WORLD?  I began to panic. What if I never escaped? What if I was doomed forevermore to taking lifts up buildings and hanging outside of Hungry Jack’s? In the name of anthropological and sociological research, I sent my courageous friend Elena to the urban jungle of NYC – otherwise known as Noo Yawk – to test Belle’s hypothesis. Here’s what she had to say.

AN INVESTIGATIVE REPORT:

New York is a feast for the senses, but like a Hogwarts feast where food keeps appearing on your plate as soon as you finish each course – AND IT DOESN’T STOP. As soon as my Hoboken bus crawled its way out of the smog-ridden hole that is the Lincoln tunnel, I heard sirens. The screech of tyres followed by car horns. Shouts. Snippets of conversations in every which language. A steady dull roar that filled the moments in between. I was overwhelmed by the industrial symphony New York was performing, and soon my nose was similarly assaulted. That sensitive, sheltered organ was quickly overcome by the strong smell of hot dogs, pretzels, petrol, fragrances wafting out of shops and the pervasive scent of tobacco. My eyes drank in the fancy apartments, the ominous alleyways in between, the fancy shops juxtaposed against the filthy pavement shadowed by skycrapers that tickled the sky.

The simple act of walking down the footpath was exhilarating as I witnessed clichés from almost every American film I have ever seen. Couples holding hands iceskating, American flags in every window and doorway, Starbucks on every other corner, the impossible task of hailing a cab, rude vendors, bright lights casting their halos on the dark purple sky. These were all scenes which are not uncommon in Brisbane (minus the American flags), but against the postcard background of New York City they became in my mind vibrant snapshots of what life should be like. At last I’d found the elusive grass – you know, the kind that’s always greener on the other side – only it was on the other side of the Pacific Ocean, and this grass was grass. In other words, intoxicating stuff.

The joint was aglow with energy. It seemed that everyone and everything in the city was screaming for attention. From the girls wearing miniskirts in the freezing winter to the gangster swaggering through the streets covered in gold, whose bling was even overshadowed by buskers who dressed like Disney characters (probably to give an illusion of harmlessness) and who literally grabbed slow-witted tourists in order to demand donations from those bulging bum-bags. Ironically, in their efforts to gain moments in the limelight these people simply became extensions of the environment.

I was loving every minute of the madness. This was what city life was meant to be – opportunities for thrilling escapades and urban legends beckoning at every corner. I looked expectantly at the natives, expecting to see a city full of people happy that their lives were so enriched and exciting. Instead, I saw almost every person rush through Times Square with a scowl on their face, ignoring the activity, sidestepping the guy in a Spiderman costume who was trying to direct traffic, walking right past these daily prospects of adventure. To my dismay, I saw a city full of people frustrated that they were living the same day every day, tired of their monotonous urban lives.

LA CONCLUSIóN / MORAL OF THE STORY:

It’s easy to conclude that no matter which city on Planet Earth you’ve living in, urban life sucks the soul out of every person. But that’s the easy way out. It doesn’t matter whether you’re running around Central Park in an Elmo costume or strutting your ripped-denim clad legs down Queen Street Mall – in the end, under all these pretty wrappings, we’re simply rats in a rat race, searching for fulfilment that we’ll never attain as long as we have that there-must-be-more-than-this-provincial-life mentality stuck in our minds. Instead of wallowing in our urbanality, we should take life by the horns – create our own adventures and don’t blame the city for the fact that our lives are not like Gossip Girl.

DISCLAIMER: we do quite like Brisbane, despite its world-famous exorbitant parking fees (it costs more to park in Brisbane than in downtown Noo Yawk!) and the ridiculously expensive food. Perhaps its familiarity is the very reason it’s such a great place in which to grow up. That and the lack of gunmen running amok, and the silent sound of non-existent police sirens screaming after gangs in the dead of night.