Wishing you were here (2)

The place buzzed with activity on an afternoon when a late spring sun shone through a vibrant city.

There are many ways to get around it but I chose the bus – a larger than life guide exuding ample amounts of Belfast humour as we made our way down roads once the subject of adverse news footage - her humour taking the sting out of possible remaining issues.
Our bright red double-decker turned into streets swarming with well dressed people - curved around the Waterfront - steered towards an area reflecting back dark ochre – a chequered mix of old and modern buildings spooling past my window.
It was time to disembark, mingle - immerse myself in the energy re-ignited by a burgeoning city once on its knees.
I tasted olives in Saint Georges Market, meandered towards a ‘Black Man’ not yet visible – a plan to reach Great Victoria Street delayed on more than one occasion by the draw of curiosity shops hidden in shadowed back streets - replica models of Ian Paisley and Gerry Adams furtively purchased in one of them, hidden in a fistful of brown paper bags before I continued my journey.
I stood, looked up towards the windows of a building with the dubious reputation of being the most bombed. No evidence in sight though, just a large ‘Europa Hotel’ sign beneath a towering block of concrete.
Beside it stood the Opera House, built like a mini version of The Royal Albert Hall, but crouched next door to Centre Point in London.
Beyond them lay Victoria Avenue, Castle Court shopping centre - an eclectic mix of shopping possibilities extending all the way down to a grand shopping mall - its planetarium style structure housing an array of international retail outlets and star struck consumers.
Not much sign of a recession here if the fashion carriers borne by shoppers were anything to go by.
The Albert Clock, once leaning, now upright, stood ahead of a line of pulsating street fountains - a Labrador provoked by its intermittent squirts pawing at the holes they gushed from.
McHugh’s became my watering hole of choice, a glass of the black stuff gingerly sipped as I observed its clientele above the rim of a pint glass - a pale red haired man dressed down by a face full of make up. Everyone else ignored them!
I passed through the haze of her lingering petal perfume, down towards ‘The Fish’, the taste of it taunting my taste buds as I faced into moisture filled breezes from a well lit river bank.
By now blue light from the embankment had morphed the River Lagan black, the concert hall beyond Queens Bridge like a lighthouse on a rock – the amber strips curving around its circular exterior gathering in those they’d intended to attract.
With so much to see – so little time to see it all in, I vowed to come back here.