
A hundred years ago, the English critic and journalist Sidney Dark called Euston Road "the most depressing thoroughfare in central London." Noting the three train stations among its dismal landmarks, he wrote: "The position of these stations is evidence of the Englishman's queer habit of showing his worst side to the world. I can imagine a stranger arriving at Euston Station, walking out into Euston Road, exclaiming 'So this is London!' and immediately going home again."
It wasn't long before I realized that I actually looked forward to these sights, even needed them. I was stuck in a traffic jam, and if I wanted entertainment, I'd better start looking out the window. Soon, I was noticing the patterns and novelties of the road with fondness. I guessed who the Parisians fresh off the Eurostar might be; I liked logging the color of today's supercars beneath the rosy Gothic spindles of the St. Pancras Hotel. I marveled at how this ecstatic George Gilbert Scott edifice shared space with gray tower blocks, as well as shops and cafes anonymous in their garishness. Together these buildings trace the contours of change in the city, its history jumbled out of order on a slightly shabby street.
And there, paying no mind to any of it, are the hundreds of bodies jostling against one another as they get to wherever it is they're going. But they should! For Euston Road is in fact the most generous of thoroughfares.
No comments:
Post a Comment