I think it's fair to say that every City has a soul. Something that catches and embodies the aspirations of the populace, their dreams, their shared myths and tales. It's how they want to be seen in some cases. And very clearly expressed in particular instances. It would take a heart of stone not to borne along in the ceaseless roar of brashness and sheer, eye-popping excitement that translates into New York City. Oh, the Big Apple is forbidden fruit, alright, but does n't that always taste better?

Some are more elusive and take time to nose out. Fugitive senses almost, darting out for a moment, then back into the once more into the shadows. These are the Istanbuls of this World; complicated, transitional, uncertain states of mind. Ghostly. Things are never exactly what they seem. Always a shade out. It's these places where the soul detective has to work long and hard; first to find the thread back that will take them back to the heart of this tantalising labyrinth.

Others seem beset by magic. Whose names alone suggest alchemy, enchantment, otherness, even before the inhabitants present themselves in their glorious motley. Bombay, Delhi, Tangiers. Sensuous and subtle. Milk and honey falling off the tongue. Conjuring spells, confusing all our senses. Is up, really up, or is actually down? To turn right, should I turn left? As they charm, though, they equally madden. Why are people doing that? Why won't they do this instead? If there's that pairing, then there's always this: beauty and rank squalor. A combination so vividly brought to life by Mother India.

One city might insinuate itself, slowly, irresistably, into your bloodstream; another will storm the barricades, it's shock troops assembled out of it's passionate, generous citizenry overwhelming all resistance. Let's think of Havanna: coffee-hued, from cafe noir to a delicate cafe creme. Sizzling, bold, open-hearted. Truly voluptuous. The city where just everyone walks to an inner beat, impossible to properly grasp for the outsider, but impossible not to want to try. How easy it is to be swept into their world of sensuality, Santeria, saints and sinners. It's a Spider's web.

Even the raindrops are larger than life here: fat, luxurious drops borne thousands of miles, hammering on roofs, pounding on doors, bursting like over ripe fruits. Bright green lizards shoot up walls, colour saturated butterflies waft elegantly on mysterious breezes. Cats and dogs idle along overheated streets, chiding and fussing, alone, in pairs or groups. Almost human. In fact, it would n't be so much outside the bounds of reason, if one did n't sidle alongside, offer a manicured paw and start to chat.

Another city might carry the spirit of decadance. Think of Nice. The Playground of the South of France. Rogue-ish and flattering. A sense of knowingness. You might think you can shock, but, really, we've seen it all before. As Nice pulverises, Monaco, it's neighbour, exudes utter contentment. A steady heartbeat of affluence, throbbing through this sliver of a country. In design, surely as in intention, perfectly proportioned, indulged to the right degree. It could be the inner sanctum of a fabulously wealthy Merchant Bank (could be? It is).

If you're British, then the national symbol might as well be an umberella. We're driven by the weather. But not the only people. Think of Buenos Aires. Heat-drenched during the summer. Sun soaking into buildings, into the pavements and certainly into it's inhabitants. Life simply has to be lived outside, the weather does not permit anything else. A life lived outside does n't mean an unquestioned life. Perhaps it's the consequence of living life in the blaze of the sun, where everyone lives cheek by jowl out of necessity, that actually makes people so clearly aware of each other, and in the example of this swaggering, life lived at full intensity, drum-banging city, to ask the deep, probing questions, of just how do they get along. No city has more psychologists than Buenos Aires (not even New York). Few cities have as many cosmetic surgeons either. That's it: nip, tuck, and tango.

If Buenos Aires can be compared to a matador dropping on one knee with carefree arrogance with careless respect for whatever he's facing, and always ready to bounceback. Montevideo, it's neighbour on the opposite bank of the River Plate, is the matador on hard times, bruised, a little unsteady on his feet, and perhaps happier to live on memories. Or is that just healthy realism?

Is that in itself the true essence of the soul of a city: realism dosed with a little romance. After all, don't we all need that in life?