Hobags of York

(Oooh, a two-post day! I just don't want this blog to have to be all serious all the time.)

Adrienne’s mother and sister Alyce are visiting for the week. They were down to London all day Friday, and yesterday they went around the city, shopping. Alyce seems very nice and a clever kid, but very seventeen, in a way I don’t think I ever was. She gets very excited about going shopping here in England, and less than enthused about the castles-and-cathedrals part of visiting Europe, which is Bantu to me- I’ve always been happy to let them keep the shops, as long as I got the history. Anyway, last night she decided she really, really wanted ice cream, so we met up with Chris and Katie for dessert at Betty’s.

York is a very funny place. During the day, it’s relatively quite and elegant, graceless and charming and comfortable, if you can ignore the tourist hoardes who populate the streets. Still, there’s something very quaint-English-village-y about it, except that it’s bigger. It feels sedate and middle-aged; York has seen too much to care, much less judge.

Going out at night is like stepping into another world. We live on the far end of Micklegate from town, which means we get the brunt of it if we’re in town during the evening. Micklegate has more pubs, bars, and clubs than any other street in York, and a lot of people, especially those out for bachelor or hen nights, do the ‘Micklegate Run’, meaning they start drinking at one end and hit every establishment from there to the end. It’s incredibly loud and raucous. People vomit in the streets on a disturbingly regular basis, and if you got a dime for every time you saw someone literally stumbling along the pavement, you’d be able to dine out for several weeks. It’s not just teenyboppers or uni students, either; it’s middle-aged couples or friends out on the town, equally pickled.

The most remarkable thing, though, is the inverse correlation between the temperature and the clothing girls seem to find appropriate. When the temperatures drop, the hemlines creep up. Leggings, a very common staple in English fashion during the daytime, are lost on these women at night. Belts are wide and skirts are narrow, so you honestly can’t tell which is which. Coats or shawls are nonexistent, and my feet hurt just looking at the heels people wear. I am honestly not sure that I could pick a streetwalker out in a lineup along Micklegate, and the decibel level in the centre of town trumps anything the tourists come up with during the day, even when they are packed wall-to-wall.

Maybe I’m a fashion prude, or maybe it’s just that I fail to see the joy of wearing skirts that leave one’s lady bits open to frostbite (not the mention the scrutiny of the entire county). I find that I can drink just as comfortably in something that covers the subject as I could wearing virtually nothing (possibly even more comfortably, since my bare bum isn’t sitting on a bar stool that way). It’s not that I don’t appreciate the joys of miniskirts- I have a couple rather short ones myself, and I’ve never had a problem with letting the world see my legs. But I do draw the line at skirts that are smaller from waist to hem than my hand. I know, intellectually, that one should not judge- but it’s awfully hard not to think, Hobag, at the crowds and crowds of women dressed in a costume I wouldn’t go swimming in, much less out for the night. I don’t even want to think about what they must look like dancing.

It’s such a stark contrast to York during the daylight. I was honestly halfway embarassed for Adrienne’s family to see this version of the city I love so well, because as far as I am concerned, Saturday night represents something that isn’t my idea of York. And it’s not just because I suspect that Adrienne’s mum takes a rather more conservative approach to life. I wouldn’t be thrilled with my parents, who are wildly liberal and accepting of all things, seeing this part of York- I don’t even like to walk through it myself. It’s an urban Jekyll and Hyde routine: the beautiful city by day, a seething brothel on the pavement by night. I don’t go out on Saturday nights very often- Fridays, when I am out a lot, it’s not quite as bad, although it’s bad enough- and so I still find it a little shocking. Maybe it’s because I’m used to Washington, where everyone is always a bit decorous in both attire and behaviour; it’s too political a town not to be circumspect.

James’s theory is that, because British culture is so generally upright and proper most of the time, people really let go when they let go at all. I think there may be truth in that theory. I wonder, then, if it suggests that the Tribe’s general attitude of living life to the extreme all the time, but taking it all in stride at the same time, is the thing that keeps us from going off the rails? Maybe, somewhere along the line in life, one makes the choice between nine-course dinner and wine parties in bustles and waistcoats, and cocktails, spike-heels, and trollop skirts? Having never tried the other side, I can’t fairly say for certain... but I’m pretty sure we get the best of it.