Because all the statistical and physical indications of a city do not a city make. They are all supposed to contribute to the development of some less tangible elements of our treasured urban environments, which might collectively be defined as being somewhat difficult to define. But let me try my luck anyway. It's the reason that the New Yorker magazine has pages of fine print listing just one week's worth of musical, cultural, artistic, theatrical, and otherwise entertaining and possible enriching events. The force that electrifies the street life of Sydney's pedestrian malls during the Gay Pride Parade, and makes people cram themselves into dirty plastic chairs on overflowing patios to drink expensive flat beer while their armpits sweat in the heat of a midsummer evening in Montreal.
Some people call it urbanity.
Quite simply, because the neighbourhood is an extension of their home. Well, I never thought that we had it around here, because the people who seem to define what this place is about are too busy hopping in their private automobiles and driving away just as fast as they can whenever they have a free moment. But then I went downtown. As we strolled down the block the lazy aroma of a marijuana cigarette caressed our nasal passages, and soon our olfactory sensors were joined in their pleasure by the stimulation of the auditory function. Just existing in their own mad worlds but for now united by these crazy beats coming from the fingers of a guy in a wheelchair with a box of vinyl and a couple of turn tables.