||[Aug. 5th, 2010|03:32 pm]
A couple of weeks ago I went to Brighton to research a travel reportage for Hufvudstadsbladet. I like Brighton. Everytime I go I expect to love it. I get all giddy and excited on the train. I question my decision to live in London. I day-dream about moving closer to the sea. Then I actually get there and realize why I haven’t. The sea is there, but so is the smell of stale doughnuts, Saturday night piss and beer.
I interviewed a tarot reader on the promenade who compared it to Las Vegas. “What happens in Brighton stays in Brighton, people come here to let loose sexually”, he said. Then he read my fortune and told me I would have a relaxing day.
And since I believe in fortune tellers I did. I walked around, chatted to the locals, took plenty of photos and had some ice cream. It was hot, even though you can’t really tell from the pictures.
Originally published at Onthetrain. You can comment here or there.