From London With Love: A Night at the Moulin Rouge
My dearest artlings,
Here’s a hot take: you don’t know London if you don’t know Soho.
A little overboard, you might think. But it isn’t.
London’s topography is key to understanding its cultural, social, economic, and political makeup. The galleries are in St James’s; the private members’ clubs in Mayfair; the publishing houses in Bloomsbury; and the theatres—and trouble—reside in Soho. It’s where I’m headed tonight.
Soho is the part of London that’s always humming. As you push your way down the crowded streets, decorations of all kinds hang over your head—signs, lights, Chinese balloons, and so on. Smells of Chinatown’s roast duck, cigarette smoke, and something sweet you can’t quite place mingle in the air. Every night, something’s on—Shakespeare, Carmen, Swan Lake (with a twist), or musicals pulled straight from movies your parents grew up on.
Tonight, my friend and I are off to Moulin Rouge. The music is supposed to be fabulous, and the costumes—even more so. We're just hoping it’s slightly tamer than Cabaret, the last musical we saw. (We definitely don’t recommend you see that with family!)
The theatre is tucked just off Shaftesbury Avenue, surrounded by pubs and restaurants that definitely won’t do your waist line any favours. But we’re here to indulge. We stop by a French bistro for a bite before stepping back out onto the street.
And there it is—the windmill. Not as glowy as the Paris original, but enough to remind you what’s coming: a love story staged in a world of velvet, diamonds, disease, and desperation. Christian, the poor writer, falls for Satine, the star courtesan of the Moulin Rouge. But she’s promised to the rich duke who’s keeping the place afloat. What follows is your dilemma—love or duty. Spoilers: she dies. Consumption, naturally. As for the decision, you’d have to watch the show yourself.
If you’re feeling fancy, you can splurge on a table seat right by the stage—champagne, comfortable chairs, the whole ordeal. Or you can go up—stacked high like the favelas on the hills, where the air’s thinner and the view’s distant. Honestly? That’s where the best people-watching happens anyway.
And it’s not just Moulin Rouge. Soho’s theatres are crammed together, their posters fighting for attention—Hamilton, Wicked, Clueless, The Devil Wears Prada. Each one offers you a life someplace else, be it LA, NYC, or the Land of Oz. Then you step back out into the London night, ready to end it in one of Soho’s notorious hidden bars.
That’s the thing about Soho: it’s both the show and the afterparty. You come for the theatre, you stay for the city. Maybe you stumble into a jazz club, like Ronnie Scott’s; maybe you end up eating Japanese pancakes in Chinatown at 1 a.m.; maybe you just walk home humming a song you can’t get out of your head.
Either way—next time you’re here, start in Soho. If you know it, you know London.
With love from London,
Maya