Sexy, Summertime London

By Elle Kwan - That ball of fire throbs burning in a perfect sky, and the world feels different. I can smell a sunny day, although I’m not sure why. It could be the sun baking the slabs of pavement, the concrete sending out a dull steady heat. It could be tube fumes rising with the temperature. It could be the grease, freshly splashed upon the barbecue, burning from gardens as early as 11am for fear there might not be another day like this. A sunny day in London town is all too rare.

Summer in London, by Rick Kwan

I join the trip-traps of marching flip-flops, a carnival parade of shoppers stalking down Oxford Street. And what a show it is. The usual denim of all types is now interspersed with this summer’s hot new colors: slashes of lime, glimpses of citrus, splashes of fuchsia and huge expanses of fake tanned flesh, this from the legions of celebrity copycats, which have reached epidemic proportions here. A generous helping of Brit-art-school style that states: It looks like charity shop but is more than last month’s rent, combines with the authentic vintage-wearing set and a healthy mix of wacky fashion, imported on the bodies of the Japanese and Hong Kong residents. Multi-layered, high-heeled, leg-warmered chic dances alongside less common Spanish leather, a tailored Italian jean, a crude American-white-sock-trainer combo, and a tight-fitting French tee. Most surprising are the Arabs moving in black among the crowd like cloned and silent spirits, taking refuge from their own boiling countries. To them, this heat is nothing. I’m on the high street, but LV, Gucci and Prada sponsor the crowd, real and fake, as the players brandish their bags and pout under shades. It is perhaps the one unifying factor in such an eclectic group.

The streets bustle with traffic, the familiar red buses lazing along alongside cruising black taxis, sports cars and Vespas. A Range Rover waits for the lights to signal green and pumps out the latest Bollywood beat, just as a limousine full of Russian elite pulls up to the doors of Selfridges.

Cafés are suddenly transformed and mimic our continental European neighbors with outside tables, wine glasses and lattes, and al fresco pizza. Pubs spill crowds from their doors, red-faced with beer, sunburn and jolliness. For the purer of heart, an old-fashioned van sends out a tinkling tune and invites the masses to sample its wares — ices and cones, already dripping in the heat…

A small square is littered with life. Language students here for study holidays sit in clusters practicing verbs, phrases and slang. The slang is picked up by the guys next to them, dreadlocks flying while back-flipping and break dancing. Hoards of shop workers lounge away lunch hours, while kids from all corners of the world make friends and chase pigeons, their parents laugh, smoke, and kiss.

On every corner comes a new accent, dialect or patois. If New York is a melting pot, then this is a tropical fruit cocktail, a sizzling jambalaya of races and nations. People live, study, work, make art, create music, have fun, runaway, and fall in love here. They fall in love with here.

If you want a vibe, an attitude, and mounting energy, you could do no better than to discover summer in London. We’re making our own party and pretty much everyone is invited.