NYLON - February 2008 - (Page 116) en route BRIGHTON ROCKS It is an archetypically dark and stormy night in Brighton, gloomy in a decidedly Conan Doylelike, Victorian way: an evening for murders performed under gas street lamps. “You don’t want to go out in this,” says the man at the train station’s information desk, running his finger along a map, measuring the imposing distance between the station and my hotel and recommending that I call a cab, the tragically anemic relationship of dollar to pound notwithstanding. “You don’t want to go out until spring.” Walking down West Street, toward the sea, the wind is so stiff that I start cursing. There is no one to hear me, because the streets are empty. It feels like midnight in the wettest, windiest place on earth. I wipe tiny puddles of rainwater off my cell phone’s display to discover that it is 4:30 p.m. Welcome to Brighton, the city-by-the-sea that’s provided home and entertainment for such diverse parties as King George IV (who, in the early 1800s built the Royal Pavillion, a wildy ornate palace that’s now one of the city’s prime tourist draws), the country’s then-nascent gay pride movement in the 1970s, and more recently, London’s striving creative class—which has shown up in search of cheaper rents and, presumably, seaside drinks. It is to London Great music, art, and the possibility of seaside drinks on an iconic pier less than an hour from London: What’s not to love about Brighton? By Diane Vadino. Photographed by Karen Hopley and Rob Meyers what Philadelphia might be to New York, albeit without the astronomical murder rate, with more pubs, and closer: about 50 minutes from Victoria station by “fast train,” making it even more proximal to London than the most far-flung points on that city’s Tube system. The pro-Brighton case is a simple one to make: close to London but less expensive, with its own art and music scene and a deservedly famous seaside location, centered around a lovely Victorian pier. At least, it is a simple case to make during the summer, even as most of London quarrels over any available space for their beach towels near the water (on the pebbles, no sand beaches here): In winter, it is a bit more of a challenge. “A Brighton holiday, in November?” queries a clerk at WHSmith, where I buy enough food to ensure that once I reach my hotel, I will not need to go outside again until morning. “Are you sure?” I am: Despite the crap weather and the city’s off-season sluggishness, there’s also something about Brighton that’s willfully, pleasantly cheeky (to borrow a Britishism). My room at the Hotel Pelirocco is decorated like a stripper’s boudoir, only pinker, and in case I have forgotten that it is called the “Pussy Room,” the word PUSSY has been spelled out in neon atop a mirror. However clitoral the design
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