The City that Was Itself
Rhys Hughes

You have probably never heard of Itselfia, the city that evokes only itself. Few people go there these days. That is a shame because it is rather a pleasant place, full of little squares and gardens where the inhabitants gather to play music, drink wine and forget they are lost until the following morning. Even the ruler of Itselfia can sometimes be found wandering the open spaces, asking people for directions home. Once he lived in a palace and one day he might find it again. Until that moment he satisfies himself with cheap rented accommodation.

All other cities like to dream of other cities. Itselfia does not dream or encourage dreams in its populace, unless those dreams are scenes identical to the scenes of daily urban life. Itselfia is unique. All cities are unique but the style of uniqueness possessed by Itselfia is wholly singular, for it has nothing to do with geography, architecture, the culture or character of its people. Itselfia may resemble other cities in certain aspects, the boulevards and parks and restaurants, but it refuses to acknowledge rivals. It is self-referential.

Other cities give the impression of wanting to travel elsewhere but Itselfia prefers to be only where it is. It is satisfied but not smug. Consider a city such as London. A traveller may visit London and stroll down Oxford Street and thus be reminded of Oxford; in Oxford he might cross Gloucester Green and so begin to think of Gloucester; in Gloucester he can loiter on Cheltenham Road while he daydreams of Cheltenham; in Cheltenham there is a Bath Road; in Bath an Upper Bristol Road; in Bristol a Coventry Walk; in Coventry a Norwich Drive; in Norwich a Quebec Road ...

Simply by arriving in London one rainy day, the traveller has already moved in some part to Canada, in terms of reference, of imagery. He is connected with places outside his actual location, and those other places are similarly connected. This process is endless and forms a gigantic loop, or rather a net that ensnares the world, for London does not evoke merely one city, Oxford, but a thousand others, each with a myriad evocations of its own. All cities are invisible lenses that diffuse a sense of place — all except the unambiguous Itselfia.

The method by which Itselfia evokes only itself is disappointingly simple. Every street, however long or short, has the same name. Likewise every square, park, building. It might be supposed that the inhabitants can still distinguish certain areas by painting houses different colors or planting trees in recognizable patterns. But without names a destination becomes merely a description, subject to inaccuracies and fatal misunderstandings. The Street of Green Houses is a new name; a street of green houses is not. The former is outlawed in Itselfia; the latter is permitted but useless.

I wanted to live in Itselfia and decided to look for work there. The journey was long and not without incident. I entered the city under the imposing arch of Itselfia Gate and walked down Itselfia Street as far as Itselfia Square. I asked for directions to Itselfia Hotel, where I planned to spend the night. I was given the same reply from many people: "Turn right or left on any corner, walk up or down any street, cross any square and knock on the door of any house." These directions were both vague and precise. I did not find my hotel. I drank wine in a garden instead.

Itselfia is not quite a labyrinth, for a labyrinth evokes other labyrinths, some with walls of stone, some with walls or thorns and leaves. Itselfia is too homely, too comfortable to be a labyrinth. When a man is lost in a labyrinth he is always where he does not wish to be. When a man is lost in Itselfia he is always in his desired place, in the right house, on the right street, listening to guitars under the right willow. It was many months before I managed to escape Itselfia. I can no longer remember if I left willingly or not. But I have never returned.

RHYS HUGHES has written more than 400 short stories that have appeared in various publications around the world. His books include Stories from a Lost Anthology, The Percolated Stars, The Postmodern Mariner, The Less Lonely Planet, and many others. He currently resides in Madrid.