I Died in Saturday's Stilettos

I’ve found a comfortable spot in the sunlight for afternoon tea. My garden woods are eerily silent, serving as a stark contrast to the email I've received from my good friend Paris. As I sit in my reading chair, my laptop balanced across my lap, a rotation of memories flashes across my screen. I stare at a younger me: a slim, dirty blonde with an attitude that could manifest empires, and a liver that could outpace any pirate.

The onscreen pictures captured a typical night out in Soho, London. It’s strange to think how long ago my transatlantic move was. Soho, for those who may not know, is a place for misfits, castaways, and creatives. It’s a shared space of sex workers living beneath halos of neon light and rainbow people gathered to celebrate without restrictions. Not forgetting the old Soho Square priest, glaring over all beneath him with utter contempt. Or perhaps envy.

Soho is a magnificent circus. In many ways, it raised me, teaching me how to hold my drink, my nerve, and my expectations. These are important lessons if you're going to become a Sohoian. Among the lessons is the art of pleasure and temptation. Yet there's more than just the layered ruffles of indulgence; Soho shelters the displaced, providing a community for people that society has long since demonized. Those branded as immoral delinquents and social outcasts. Soho: the collector of discarded trinkets.

The pictures of Paris and me, devouring trendy cocktails against a backdrop of pop art, became more interesting once I saw Tahzi. Supposedly, Tahzi was an Arabian Prince twice removed—from royalty or reality, I never figured out. Paris and I were enjoying hookah and whiskey-spiced cocktails when the Arabian Prince sauntered over to us; his bearded face was enthusiastically alight. He picked up our bar tab—a decision he soon regretted. He hadn’t realized that Soho was our den mother. She had trained us for the alcohol Olympics, and we weren't getting drunk anytime soon.

There is something else I remember. The Arabian Prince claimed to be married to Princess Jasmine of Baghdad. I didn't interrupt him to express that Aladdin is also one of my favorite Disney flicks. I didn’t even ask him whether his wife knew of a Jafar, who had a talking parrot named Iago. Instead, it was my turn to smile a little too big. Soon enough, we drifted into a Persian eatery, where the prince stiffed us with the bill.

All the best tales happen at sundown, from faux princes to unexpected cravings to disastrous hook-ups. As the cursor transitions through a gallery of blurry eyes, smudged lipstick, lost shoes, and one gained traffic cone, I'm left with an overwhelming desire for eggplant parmigiana. Amid its flamboyant taboos, Soho is an exciting square of culinary wonders that holds its own against the vast backdrop of entertainment. With late-night restaurants, there’s always a table you’re welcome at. Besides, you get drunk in the square, you get sober in the square. Those are the rules.

I remember another night when we strolled into the village after a Skunk Anansie gig. It was 3 a.m. It was that fateful night that I died in Saturday's stilettos. My friends and I were huddled around a small table at a Lebanese drinking hole, downing Sambuca shots off the chest of a Drag Queen named Cinderfella. The conversation ended up dividing the group between those who were going to camp it up at the gay club Astoria and those bound for Torture Garden. I looked upon my sore feet, squashed into six-inch heels, and sighed.

The truth was, I longed to be in my slippers. More than that, I yearned to be home, tucked away in bed watching Doctor Who reruns while devouring an enormous slab of chocolate. As someone who could be found in Soho most evenings for over a decade of decadence, I suddenly wanted to retire. It was an uncomfortable realization that left me feeling a whirlwind of unpleasant emotions. We had faced our very best—and our very worst—years together. But it was coming to an end. I had outgrown the neon mile.

As it happened, I persevered and danced sore feet into Sunday morning. I slept at my friend's house, along with the strangers we had accumulated hours beforehand, including Cinderfella. Once we had all stirred awake sometime Sunday afternoon, my friend reintroduced us to Boho: the speckled rabbit that she bought while we all rode the night bus home. Boho—sold by a stranger called Luke “Magic” Davis—was a beauty. That’s another of Soho’s rules: you never know what you’ll buy when in her square mile; pythons, nipple tassels, authentic death masks, urine, and of course, rabbits.

To date, Soho and I have been separated for ten long years. I think of the square often. Naturally, I’ll return one day—everyone does sooner or later—but as a different person. It's true that I still have my extravagant collection of stilettos, but it's also true that they're boxed away in storage, much like the rest of my Soho days and youth. It’s also true that I’ve matured into myself with self-love, self-acceptance, and self-advocacy. I’m no longer that vulnerable kid, kicked out of a family for being queer, only to be rescued by Soho and its patriots. In truth, I think Soho would be proud of who I’ve become. Especially since the odds of survival weren’t in my favor.

Emails like Paris’s are beautiful souvenirs of my past life. But that life doesn’t exist anymore. Nor do I want it to. Thankfully, that’s the purpose of memories. They remind you of a different timeline and a different version of yourself. They weave the monumental moments together, highlighting the path forged that moved you forward.

When I look back, I ache with gratitude. Of course, Soho is a social hub, and I gladly dedicated years of my life to the party scene, celebrated with feather boas, rainbow flags, and hedonism. But more than intemperance, you’ll find community at the soul of Soho. A village that embraces newcomers who’ve been rejected by society, restoring them whole. So yes, there’s immense gratitude tied to my memories, where the liquor always pours, and the neon never sleeps.

Who knows, maybe one day I’ll find another comfortable spot in the sunlight for afternoon tea. There, I’ll pen my Soho confessions wearing those same fateful stilettos. And who knows, it may become a New York Times bestselling biography.