Writings: New City

Heels, my own, click too loudly on the deserted night street. It's actually not deserted; there is a woman in scrubs walking outside the hospital and some hipster or homeless looking guy walking out of the park. Then there is me, the girl transplanted into this unfamiliar place. So the street is not deserted, but to me everywhere here seems strange and foreign; I might as well be alone.

Why do I have shoes that make this much noise? The homeless guy asked me the same question the other day on my way to the hospital: "Stop, lady, stop; why you be all tapping like that on the sidewalk?"

I get to the bus stop, and thank the Lord the homeless hipsters did not get me...this time. Most likely they have no interest in me whatsoever, but how am I supposed to know this? The bus is my least favorite thing about this otherwise lovely city. It's 10:30pm and the bus is crowded. I get on, and people barely move to make way. The bar is too high for me to hold, and the man standing behind me leans onto me for support. This is why I go out of my way to avoid peak hours because it makes me feel anxious to have strangers surround me, press against me. It's too much and it's the hardest thing to get used to in this city. That, and the cold summer. No, this city is too chill for the heat.

There are old, middle, and young people all taking this late bus. The people make casual conversations with whoever they happen to sit next to. All these city dwellers have hair with an attitude and wear dirty looking jackets because most people here look homeless regardless of their actual housing status. Even the crazies are friendly here and the friendly crazy. It's the weather; it's the weed; it's just this city I suppose. I am wary though because my obliviousness can be quite striking at times. I try not to betray my naivete, but humans have a keen sense for vulnerability. Rootless am I and tender is the night.

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

stood in tears amid the alien corn;

he same that oft-times hath

Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. -John Keats