The big city girl and the magic hammer

I grew up in a small town.

The type of small town where everyone remarks how oppressive and smelly big cities are.

The type of small town where you don't know everyone, but you surely know everyone in town by two degrees of separation.

The type of small town where the bus driver yells at you for standing up before the bus stops because you may get hurt, instead of yelling at you for not being at the door yet.

The type of small town where locals frustrations about the state of a particular road are headline news, and people rally around the cause of saving an old oak tree.

The type of small town where a friend's father declared me to have become "big city" when, a year after leaving, I showed up for my sister's graduation ceremony wearing a skirt I'd purchased at a garage sale. (I'm convinced it was because of the size of my earrings.)

And I live in a big city.

I ride the bus standing up with a coffee in my hand, go everywhere with headphones on, belong to a yoga studio, am fond of assorted martinis and am pretty good with chopsticks-- but I like to pretend I am not "big city".

I ran some errands downtown the day after I arrived home for Christmas, including one for my mother. She told me that the hardware store had some sort of innovative new hammer, that had a weird angled head that was meant for small corners. She said they would know what I was looking for if I described it to them.

They did not know what it was.

In fact, the second worker's words were, "Sure, we have a hammer that goes around corners. It's right over there by the striped spray paint and the sky hooks."

Even when it was determined what she actually meant (some out of stock multipurpose tool), I could hear them roaring, aisles away. "A hammer for around corners!"

I left, my tail tucked between my legs, and promptly ran into an old family friend, who also burst into peals of laughter when I recounted my story. "Was your mom pulling your leg? Did she actually tell you to ask about a hammer for around corners?"

So now I'm the big city girl who doesn't understand that you can use a hammer on both sides of a corner.

Dammit.

I might as well show up at the co-op decked out in bling, Dolce & Gabbana and stilettos.

My hypothetical life on a hill

San Francisco makes my heart hurt a little.

There's something about a city determined by geography that appeals to me. I don't understand the connection people have to those metropolises that have just been dumped randomly onto an empty plain. Sure, I recognize the practicality of such spaces, but I find them utterly lacking in character. Perhaps it just appears that because of their lack of need to consider the environment around them, these cities aren't quite as conscious of their surrounding. When you are built in a valley or on the shore, the features of the outdoors suddenly become such a necessary part of day-to-day life, whether it be your daily bridge crossing or the hike up the hill to the grocery store.

Sure, more often than not, these realities of the environment are actually a hassle. I have cursed the fact that the mountains and ocean shores in make for a series of awkward bridges, curvy roads and traffic jams in the city I live in, as compared to the convenient bold highways dumped in the middle of prairie cities. And the hills of San Francisco, while picturesque, certainly make for gasps for air, squealing brakes, and aching toes, even without an armload of groceries.

But these hills are just so damn beautiful. I adore how you turn a corner and are suddenly greeted by an unexpected and dramatic view, how the bottom floors of houses are cut into a diagonal by the sidewalk, how the old houses loom above the people walking their dogs below. Perhaps it is from growing up on the sides of a mountain, but hills just feel like home to me somehow.

As I wander about the streets, I am a little insatiable in searching out the details. I feel compelled to peer down every corner and sneak a glimpse into any open backyard, just to make sure I'm not missing something. I feel like I'm playing dress-up, adult-style; instead of wearing a tiara and pretending I am a princess, I masquerade as a local. I ride public transit and decide which coffee shop would be my coffee shop. I start imagining all the things I would do in my new San Francisco life. These include taking naps with my cat in my bay window, growing herbs on my roof, and having serious phone conversations on my front stoop. I even briefly consider taking up smoking in my hypothetical life just for the satisfaction of having a formal reason for climbing out my window onto the fire escape late at night.

Windy days and tea shops

I think the tea shop worker has a bit of a crush on me.

It is not just that he complemented my t-shirt when I walked past the counter. It is more than he gives me a big nervous smile when he comes by to refill my water, stammering out questions about whether the fan was interfering with my reading, and I accidentally catch his eye as I glance around the room on more than one occasion.

To be truthful, I find the whole thing a little endearing, and a little reassuring. He thinks I'm cute enough to be nervous about in the same outfit I was wearing when, earlier, happy to be freed of another day wearing my professional pants, I declared "Being a slob is highly underrated!" Even better, he thinks I'm cute enough to be awkwardly nervous about, rather than to cockily and drunkenly stammer towards-- which, no matter how much time elapses between bar trips, seemingly remains the predominant mating dance of the 20-something.

(Although, to be fair, someone did recently shout "Babe-raham Lincoln" at me whilst pedaling by on their bike, sans helmet I wasn't sure whether to be flattered, offended, or just shamelessly impressed by his Wayne's World quoting ability.)

As I was getting a little stir crazy from my first whole work-from-home-day in months, the Duke essentially commanded me to leave the house that evening, and finally enter the 200+ varieties of tea shop a ten minute walk away from us.

He is a smart boy sometimes (see: picking me). Pina colada tea (note: best idea ever) and an honest-to-God-fiction-book-that-is-in-no-way-related-to-my-dissertation make for a great way to clear one's head. What this mini-excursion really reminded me of, though, is how much I miss walking.

In my old neighbourhood, I took to wandering as a simple way to clear my head. Sometimes I took my camera, sometimes my iPod, and sometimes it was just me and my feet. My new neighbourhood, on the surface, appears too functional for such endeavours I walk to the overpriced grocery store, the coffee shop, the bus stop, my friend's apartment. I never just walk.

As I stroll down the street home, I think about all the silly details I miss by only walking to reach a destination, by keeping my sunglasses and headphone on at all times to shelter me from the world. Like how invigorating it feels to have the wind blow your hair perfectly away from your face. Or the parked bus emblazoned with the name Buttercup. Or the piles of cherry blossoms. Or the man singing to himself.

It's good to get out of your apartment and out of your head sometimes.

Cities

Some people, while kind and polite and every other generic positive characteristic, just aren't terribly memorable. They are pleasant to sit beside at a dinner party, but you may never have another thought about them once you walk out the door. 

I find cities can be the same way. While it is rare that I actively dislike a city, I find it entirely disconcerting how apathetic I can feel about them. They all have their cliched tourist attractions, be it their random museum, their ubiquitous waterfront pathways, their concrete shopping meccas. And while these may capture my attention for a series of moments, I always find myself looking for something about the city to speak more directly to me. I can't just let my only snapshot of it be the billboards around the highway to and from the airport, the tacky wall art in a hotel, the abstract patterned carpets in the conference centres, the glass walled skyscrapers. If this is all I see, I can't help but resent the five hour plane ride and taxi rides. I think that I could find this very same experience in my backyard. I wonder what drives people to live there, versus anywhere else in the world, and wish I had the time to figure that out.

Other cities just have an immediate spark. These aren't always the ones I would predict. While I loved the warm beaches and the people watching in Los Angeles, or I found the life amidst the crumbling buildings in Havana fascinating, they remained with me more as stories than a continued connection. I become a little insatiable in wanting to know these cities that I sense this spark in, to breathe them in, wander down random streets, to know all the banal details, like where people get their groceries and walk their dogs.

Montreal, for instance, has an instant charm. It could be that there is something both comfortable and exotic about feeling French flowing off my tongue again, hearing the rolling r's echoing out of my mouth. It could also be that it is such a stark contrast to the modernity of other Canadian metropolises, with its dramatic stone buildings, its cafes spilling into the streets, its steep staircases up the sides of homes. Even the most dilapidated neighbourhoods have this layer of character that other cities lack, making me wish to take photos of the chattering Greek men lined up outside a ramshackle cafe or the bold neon signs shouting "Club Supersexe!"

I was able to predict that I would like Chicago as soon as I started planning my trip there. Granted, when I emerged from an underground train into the looming buildings of the financial district, rolling bag in tow, the details of the city were a little overwhelming. However, in my week there, I relished the detailed architecture and the public art. I found myself picturing my life in a brick apartment building, drinking at the local pub. More than anything, I loved the unique flavour of the different neighbourhoods, how they felt like real communities in a sea of millions.

I just returned from a week in Portland. Often, when I travel, I feel a little vigilant and hyperaware the first few days as I grow accustomed to my surroundings. Portland put me at ease near immediately. People are kind, it is clean, easy to navigate, relaxed, without feeling small or quaint or boring. Although I could list off the features I adored, like the green parks and the eclectic market, it was more just a sense that walking the streets felt comfortable.

I suppose this is one of the best things about travel-- the idea of finding these connections in random locales. So, tell me, what cities have you felt an immediate connection to?

These are the aggravations in my neighbourhood

When the Duke and I moved in together last spring, we wanted to live in an area with a little action in it. It could be that three years spent in the suburbs when I first moved to BigCity had spoiled my appetite for pastel houses and strip malls. It could also be that I adored the apartment I was leaving, a little basement suite too small for two just off a main strip where I could wander a block or two for Thai take-out, blackberries, crepes, or a latte. As such, when we finally found a secret hardwood floored roomy top story apartment hidden out in an inconspicuous stucco building just a few blocks away from one of the busiest intersections in the city, we grabbed onto it and didn't let go. It may have helped that it wasn't owned by a racist, had a kitchen bigger than one square foot, and didn't have three colours of mold in the bathroom, like some of our other rental possibilities.

For the most past, I love it here. The apartment itself is wonderful. It is central, with buses to nearly every corner of the city a block or two away. My hair salon is half a block away, and I can browse for shoes in my pyjamas if I wanted to (not saying that I have, of course). I am only a bridge away from downtown, but with the luxury of less noise. Entertaining people hang out in my back alley, like the guy who sings reggae, or the latest wanderer, a woman with a love for showtunes. (Believe me, it is a vast improvement on Angry Guy at my old place!)

However, sometimes this neighbourhood utterly infuriates me. 

For one, some of the people are insufferably snobby. I've never lived in an apartment building where people are so disinterested in knowing their neighbours. When you pass them on their stairs, they will do anything to avoid eye contact, including pretended fixation with the patterns on the art deco style purple rug. I recall one time flinging open the back door at the same time as a fellow was trying to enter, and gasping with surprise. "Oh, I'm sorry! You scared me!" I proclaimed. He merely stared at me with disdain, and slipped on by me with nary a word.

The Duke has even overheard our next door neighbour, the one who we used to only hear when she was yelling at her boyfriend, declare pointedly during one of these blowouts that she was too smart for the people in this building. This amused me for two reasons. One, who even thinks to make those comparisons? I don't think I've ever one thought about the traits of the people one floor down in the northwest apartment and how they relate to my own. Two, we've never even met this woman. Is she aware that she is arguing this point next to what may be the world's nerdiest grad school couple?

But, really, the qualities of my neighbours don't matter that much. I have other friends residing nearby. Not to mention, the last time I made friends with someone in my apartment building, he ended up having a secret cocaine habit, and asked me if he could offer up his mind for me to "practice" my therapeutic psychology skills on. I declined this gracious offer.

What bothers me even more is that, perhaps because so many people come to browse and have dinner here on a sunny day, someone has forgotten the practicalities of actual living in this neighbourhood. The bulk of the nearby streets are filled with low-rise apartments with little to no parking, suggesting that this is an area for those of us with no cars (also, note the fact that it is a major transit centre). When we first moved it, though we were a little disappointed at the lack of fresh fruit and veggie markets, more than one overrated pub or a major grocery store, a half block away from us was a bakery, a butcher shop, and a mini grocery store with all of your staples. 

All three of which they promptly closed down two months after we moved in, despite the businesses being there for 20+ years. And have yet to fill with anything, though the other vacancies in the neighbourhood have been filled not with anything practical, but rather a Calvin Klein underwear store (just underwear. And there are already three lingerie stores on this ten block strip.) and a Pottery Barn Kids (I could go on an entire rant about why this store is even allowed to exist. Kids don't care about design and/or pottery). 

And now, despite the fact that I can get my nails done in ten different places, go see a play, have foie gras and find a prom dress, I can't get any damn groceries. This means that I have to go on an epic voyage to the nearest grocery store, and either break my back hauling food home on the bus, or take a taxi. Did I mention that almost every other neighbour in this city has an overabundance of grocery stores?

Okay, okay. I lied a little. There is a grocery store four blocks up the street-- though I use the term loosely. It is one of those dreaded "gourmet" grocery stores, with an entire aisle dedicated to balsamic vinegars, but no ground chicken and never any green beans. Caviar at the deli counter, but no roast beef. If you are lucky enough to find a standard product, like Miracle Whip or Sunrype juice, you are probably paying two dollars more for the luxury of purchasing it amidst the organic local ginseng infused juices adorning the shelves. I once dashed there to grab a jar of pesto, and found that they all ranged in price from $8 to $30. Thirty dollars for basil and olive oil. I bought the $8 one and it tasted like air. My $4 generic grocery store brand kicked its ass. I can't get a loaf of bread for less than $5 and it always goes moldy in two days. There is something to be said for preservatives.

The aisles are narrow and precariously stacked with exotic teas and grains, and it is always full of oblivious people blocking the aisles with their carts as they make sure that their cous cous is truly lead-free. The customers seem like they come straight from my building, harassing the deli workers that their ahi tuna should be cut just so, and where exactly did that pork loin come from? And did I mention they have paintbrushes beside the cash register? Not gum and chocolate bars, like normal grocery stores, but truffles and special exotic animal paintbrushes?

I never knew I would find shopping for cheese at 7-Eleven so appealing.

Sticky pages

Whenever I go to pick up a package or buy some stamps at the closest post office to my apartment, located in a magazine store, I am always awed by the sheer number of issues dedicated to the most obscure of topics. Belgian photography magazines, Spanish architecture, Chihuahuas Monthly...
However, what always entertains me the most is the sheer volume of pornographic magazines.

Am I the only one who is surprised that the porno mag is still thriving?

I guess growing up in a small town, with the bulk of our magazine selection taking up a half shelf at 7-Eleven (as a side note, my town's 7-Eleven was not open 24 hours, which is exceedingly lame. It is a sad day when one can't get a burrito at 3am). The only exception was the small selection of plastic covered magazines behind the clerk-- Playboy, Hustler, and perhaps one more specialty magazine-- allowing for very little discretion for the dirty magazine connoisseur.
This also allowed for very little underaged consumption of such magazines, meaning that my teenaged males friends would hang on to their acquired issues with utter fervour. I would then discover these very crinkled and bent magazines stuffed in the corners of my guy friend's rooms, that I might flip through when they weren't looking out of curiosity. Perhaps due to the lack of such readily available material-- and the overtness of the "back room" in the one video store in town with dirty movies-- I busted more than one guy friend staring with consummate focus at the blurry and jumbled screen of the Playboy channel we didn't subscribe to in my basement, hoping perhaps to see a boob somewhere amidst the gray haze.

Of course, then there was the internet, and everything changed. Boobs were no longer the mysterious creatures to be glimpsed on late night television, but were available in full force via the magic of Google. Not only that, but there was selection-- if you had a think for Portuguese women in bear costumes, they were only a click away! And I guess I just kind of imagined that, outside of the few cultural staples, like Playboy, the dirty magazine was soon to be obsolete.

But the magazine store has proven me wrong. There are, in fact, more dirty magazines than I ever dreamed existed. I don't know if this was always the case, and I just led a sheltered small town life, or if they have upped their variety to compete with the internet. There are quite literally more than a hundred of these glossy issues, with glaring slogans, like "Hot Housewives" and (my personal favourite) "A Bear's Life". I feel the need to peruse through the aisle out of morbid curiosity, just to discover what titles have been able to keep a market over the years.

Perhaps also because of the clandestine nature of purchasing these magazines in a small town, I also feel the urge to watch the people browsing the aisles as I wait in line for my parcel. Some walk in with a purpose, grab their glossy of choice, and stride out. Others browse like they are at a museum, slowly pacing, stopping occasionally to fish a magazine from the back, and then contemplate its cover. I giggled like a school girl when a man dressed like a sea captain, in a giant yellow rain slicker with matching hat, held up his potential purchase to the light, and I could see what must have been triple Gs proudly displayed on the back cover from metres away.

And the world continues to shrink

Saturday afternoon, I am standing at the corner of a busy intersection with the Duke and two friends, debating where to go for lunch. My eyes flit over to the flow of people crossing the pavement, and I make eye contact with a tall man. He is evidently walking towards me, with sure, direct steps, and I am perplexed. Was my eye contact somehow unintentionally inviting?

He strides up, and reaches out his hand. "Hi, I'm *insert name here*." I reached out to take his hand, bemused, when suddenly the light bulb beams on.

I've had my first random blogger encounter, for this is S'Mat, who I have emailed and Facebooked on occasion, but never encountered through anything but the glow of a computer screen. And, again supporting my conjecture that the world is a bit of a tangled interwoven spiderweb, with random lines connecting you in ways you never predicted, he has ended up not only in my city over the weekend, but dining across the street from where I stood and chattered. And he was able to generalize that profile picture snapshot to the in living colour version of me in my winter jacket on a weekend afternoon.

Feeling as though I have been standing, agape, for several minutes, I let him know that I have figured out the connection, then shout out "I haven't seen you in so long!" for the benefit of my perplexed friends. He nods wittingly at my charade. I turn to introduce him to my boyfriend, and S'mat knowingly states "This must be the Duke." The Duke is understandably bewildered to hear his former blogging moniker tossed about, but I murmur to him softly that he is another blogger. S'mat puts his finger up to his lips in recognition of our shared secret.

We talk for another few quick moments, before we both veer off to our respective groups. With the increasing overlap between my "real" life and my blogging life, I am getting eerily apt at lying on the spot, and I tell my other friends that S'Mat was an old friend from my undergraduate days. They smile and nod, then turn to the menu, as I contemplate what a very small world it is after all.

Never underestimate the power of blanket forts

The contrast to the fact that I feel justified acting younger when I'm back in HomeTown is that I feel compelled to act my age when I am back in the city.

The city is the place where I only hit the snooze button one time.

Where I file my own taxes.

Where I use a clipboard regularly.

Where I eat steamed vegetables by choice.

Where I own too many pairs of plain black socks.

Where I spend my Saturday afternoons buying garbage bags and Swiffer refills.

Where I send important emails on the train to work.

Where I make sure I wear sensible earrings (in certain contexts, at least).

Every once in a while, though, I get a flash of something that makes me feel like a child again.

Today, I was taking my bedding out of the dryer, I noticed that one of my pillow cases had gone missing. I stuck my head into my comforter cover, and saw that the pillow case had become wedged at the bottom, so I crawled in a little further to retrieve it. All the sudden, with the way the light was filtering through the blanket, I felt as though I was hiding out in a blanket fort.

And I smiled.

I realize, now, even though I've done a remarkable job at this whole "adult" thing, there are some things that all the practical pants and day planners in the world can't suppress.

Like the smell of crayons.

Having breakfast for supper.

Giving myself a bubble bath beard.

Jumping onto every chalked game of hopscotch I come across.

Dancing around my apartment to the song on my iPod the second the front door closes behind me.

Eating too much ice cream.

Tickle fights.

And being tucked into bed so tightly that my arms can barely move.

Blanket forts trump steamed vegetables any day.

You can stop that now.

You know what I am getting really damn sick of?

Sexual harassment.

Okay, I dress up pretty and go to the bar, and a sleazy guy offers to buy me a drink or grabs at me as I walk by. I get that. I may not always appreciate it, but I get it.

I'm not a wimp in this regard. My job requires that I occasionally work in a jail. I get the howls, the stares, the comments. It's not because I'm special. It's because I have boobs and I'm not a senior citizen. It's more for the benefit of the other inmates than getting my attention. I was just telling my guy the other day how I barely even notice most of the attention anymore, unless their comments get particularly clever or original, or their grunting is particularly loud.

But, really, it would be nice to be able to go for a coffee downtown, and not have the experience I did last night. It would be lovely not to have some creep start following me to my bus stop after I simply did the polite thing and said hi back to him. It would be super if he noticed that me walking quickly to get ten feet ahead of him, and ignoring his request that we spend time together. It would be bloody great if he didn't stand right beside me, staring unblinkingly, for several minutes at the bus stop, as I texted my boyfriend to call me so I could find a way to forcibly disengage from the situation. It would be fucking wonderful if he didn't start telling me he was coming home with me, and then, after I told him that was not going to happen, he stated that I could come home with him. And it was, at least, a damn relief when he finally got the point, and ran away after multiple refusals, before my bus came and he followed me home like he said he would.

It would be even better if this was a one time only type of thing, rather than a relatively regular source of stress.

I don't want to have to worry about this kind of stuff. My cousin joked about me bringing my new boyfriend home when I returned, and while I understand that he is just trying to diffuse the tension, these stories are no longer feeling very funny. Instead, I start to wonder what would have happened had it been later, darker, less populated. I worry about people's motivations, wondering if they had the nerve to say such things to me in public, what more they would do in private.

I also wonder why. Does this ever work? Does a girl ever simply agree to let this random fellow into her home, or hop in the car with him? Does it make them feel like big men to make me like I am but the sum of my female parts? Yeah, I am probably overthinking the motivations of some random pervert, but when it happens on a number of occasions, you can't help but think about it in a more systematic fashion.

I don't want to let this get to me or make it a big thing, as the truth is, it just a reality of life. It just feels good to rant sometimes, because, damn, being a woman in the city sucks sometimes.

(and now back to my scheduled hiatus...)

One more day

My red mittens are too big for me. I feel childlike with them hanging loose around my wrists.

Winter has come to Canada with a bang. In an instant, my skin has been sapped off all moisture. Chilled air is seeping through my single panes windows, needing me to wipe the hazy film from them to be able to see the world outside. I swim in the fog of others breaths waiting for the bus.

A transit worker in a Santa hat sees me frantically hugging myself at the train station. He laughs and tells me to try being outside for ten hours, then hands me a candy cane, ostensibly to get my blood sugar flowing. The crook of the cane fits perfectly around the edge of my tongue.

Last day, I tell myself.
One more day. One more day.

One more day of tacky soft rock seeping into my dreams and unceremoniously shaking me out of them.
One more day of coffee for breakfast.
One more day of one bus to the next.
One more day of chores and shopping squeezed into fifteen minute breaks in my schedule.
One more day of shoulders weighed down a bag filled with the day's necessary odds and ends.
One more day of a steady flow of emails.

Tomorrow I'm in a car, driving through the mountains.

The day after that, I wake up on my birthday to a home warmed by a fireplace. I will be wrapping my neck in a scarf not in preparation for the trek to work, but to walk the dog, cut down a Christmas tree, even to trod to the local bar.

And, so, here I am in my office, drinking lukewarm coffee and huddling next to my little heater, which is only allowed to be on low for fear of blowing a circuit, playing countdown.
Five hours and thirty eight minutes until work is done for the holidays.
Thirteen hours and thirty eight minutes until today is through.

One.
more.
day.

The reminders you don't want

A little housekeeping out of the way first...

#1- Would you believe this is my 400th post?? I find it hard to believe that, over a little less than two years, my creativity has re-appeared again to such an extent that I have thought of 400 unique things to say (more if you consider guest posts, half-written posts that I abandoned, and my work at Umm... Now What?)

#2- Thank you all so much for all the wonderful music recommendations! I was surprised at how many people suggested other artists that I already adore, which gives me high hopes for the music I have yet to listen to. Unfortunately, I was less than smart, and elicited all these suggestions right smack dab in the middle of the end of semester rush (after nearly nine years of this annual pattern, you'd think I'd figure it out), meaning I haven't had a spare moment to really listen to any of it yet. I'm the type of person that feels that new music should get my full attention on the first few listens, so I feel like I need a free afternoon to really revel in these delicious new tunes. Trust me, I'm looking forward to it!

#3- I am also happy to make an announcement of my first annual holiday giveaway. As mentioned last post, I am going to have a contest/draw sometime over the next few weeks for some mix CDs. I am still hashing out the details (e.g., how many do I want to give away?), but I am going to make both a mix of the delicious new tunes from all of your suggestions, as well as a compilation of the tunes I feel everyone should hear. So keep your eyes peeled!

#4- Speaking of Umm... Now What, we are back in search of guest posters. The stipulations are pretty vague-- it just has to be something related to life in our 20s. And, no, you don't need to be in your 20s to write it. It can be under your blogger name or anonymous. If you are interested, you can email me at princesspointful at gmail dot com if you have any questions, or send a piece directly to ummnowwhatblog at gmail dot com.

#5- Happy Thankgiving to all my American friends! Don't brag too much about your delicious dining, please, as some of us have very late regular week nights tonight, and may well be dining on instant noodles.

#6- People who choose Maybe Attending on Facebook event invites are officially the scum of the earth. It would be one thing if they truly had to wait and see if they were going to be around, but those who want to keep their "options open" can officially bite me. Just say you aren't coming. I don't want to be your back up option.
Can you tell I'm planning a birthday party? And one day after posting the events page, there are almost as many people officially confirmed as are "maybe attending".
(What do you mean this doesn't fit into my category of blog housekeeping??)

***

And, now, the real post...

As I've mentioned a number of times, I'm from a city much, much smaller than the one I currently reside. We're talking ten thousand as compared to several million.

When I first moved to the city, I assumed there would be a certain level of constant hypervigilence required. I remembered my mother's lectures every time we came to the big city, about keeping our wits about us and a tight hand on our purses. I remember our town's residents' steadfast insistences that the big city was full of drugs, crime, and anger. And although, as a teenager growing up four hours away from a town as large as a hundred thousand, I desperately wanted all the glamour I thought big city life offered, I was a little apprehensive about the other realities. As I drove in to the row of lights and billboards on the search for my first apartment when I was 19, I wondered if it was ever really possible to feel relaxed amidst all this action.

Of course, I adjusted, like one always does. The uneasiness I assumed would follow me around disappeared within a matter of weeks. As time passed, I began to find reasons for all those things a small town girl was told weren't safe in the city- walking home alone late, taking the night bus, living alone in a basement suite, working at a prison.

The differences I noticed were not the constant presence of malevolent people and malicious actions, as the nightly news had always taught me. It was more the lack of consideration, in all honesty. I get shocked more by the people who push past others, who ignore the person who has dropped their grocery bag, who fly through crosswalks full of pedestrians. My boyfriend commented on how I get more riled up at the actions of people on the bus than anything else, even seven years after leaving a small town. I'm used to people being mindful of those around them. It just doesn't occur to me not to hold open the door for the person a few feet behind me.

Lately, however, it seems as though the world has been trying to shock me into remembering how much has changed. It began with the witnessing of a violent crime in a public place. Then, on Tuesday, after I'd left work, two people were shot directly in front of the clinic I work at. My co-workers had to take the day off work because the front stoop was a crime scene. Last night, four blocks away from me, another man was shot, and jumped through the window of an apartment in a friend's building.

It's funny-- I read the headlines, just like everyone else, but I sometimes forget that this stuff really happens. This is even odder when you consider that I actually work with a forensic population, and thus hear in detail about these events as part of my day-to-day life. Yet, the very same scenarios I assumed would constantly bother me when I moved to the city are instead surprising me, reminding me of what I never believed I would forget, that I do live amongst those sensationalized headlines.

I'll see you in court!

Okay, so maybe that was not the exact message I received when I check my voicemail yesterday morning. However, when the words "subpoena" reached my ears, I may have let out an involuntary yelp.

That's right, folks, I've been subpoenaed.

Yours truly has been called as an eyewitness in a criminal court case.

I'm reluctant to speak of the details here, but I do want to clarify a little. Contrary to popular perceptions, I am not, in fact, an international spy or a gang member. Rather, this summer, while on our way to a movie, the Duke and I witnessed a crime in progress at a train station. Remembering all the research on the bystander effect (and there were actually people just walking on by), I was a good little bystander, and called the police, while the Duke attempted to stop the incident from progressing any further. I gave descriptions, the police came, handcuffed the suspect, we provided formal statements, etc, etc. We missed our movie, but had a good story to tell.

Fast forward several months, to yesterday to be exact. The two of us are called by the prosecutor to inform us that a subpoena is on its way and that we will need to make an appearance in court in December. Oddly enough, this comes right after a lengthy discussion in my psychology and law class regarding the flaws in eyewitness testimony.

I'm a little scared, to be honest. I'm pretty confident with public speaking, but the idea of swearing an oath in front of a courtroom and being cross-examined is a little petrifying. Sure, the likelihood of the court case going through is slim, and it is hardly a murder case, so the questions will likely exclusively relate to my written statement. I still can't help but picture being called out on my general credibility or being caught in a mistake.

"Your Honour, how can we trust this woman? I know for a fact that when she was 16, she was in a car full of adolescents pulled over for speeding... and unopened alcohol was found in the trunk of the car!"

*cue collective gasp from the jury*

"And she said the defendent was a man in his twenties, when she in fact was a woman in her 80s with one leg!"

*cue angry pitchforked mob chasing me*

Have any of you ever been to court before? Care to reassure me or frighten me further?

Edit: And, yes, Mister Ant (in comments) is correct. I don't intend to speak of this matter in any more detail-- I'm sure you all can understand why.

The Island Diaries- Part 1

There are vultures circling above me.
Five of them, to be exact, with bedraggled tails, feathers askew, and conspicuous bald red heads.

This leaves me a little uneasy, in all honesty. Despite being assured that they are but scavengers, and thus unlikely to bother me unless I appear particularly carrion-like, I am not entirely reassured. Their imposing manner of swooping leaves me convinced that their talons may be perfectly Princess-sized, and thus I wince a little each time their shadow darkens my view.

While the question of why these scraggly birds of death have shown a sudden interest in our deck seems like the most evident one at the moment, I also find myself wondering what strange forces of nature brought vultures, of all creatures, to this little island in the Pacific Northwest. The eagles, falcons, seals, deer, tree frogs—those all fit within my image of a woodland sanctuary of sorts. But vultures? These are the scavengers of the lion carcasses of the savannah, not the vacation homes of Canada.

(And, in all honesty, I am hiding indoors right now. Every one else is fast snoozing in their afternoon nap, and thus would not be able to hear my cries when I was scooped up to be brought to a cliff-top nest to be wedded to the Vulture King.)

***

Other than the circling vultures overhead, though, this truly is a bit of paradise. We are located on the crest of a small mountain, with a sprawling deck that the trees open up perfectly for, framing the bay and the ocean below like a sort of stage, with foliage serving as the side curtains. It doesn’t hurt that the soundtrack is the twittering of the baby swallows in a nearby birdhouse, who are apparently due to attempt their first flight in the days to come.

After so long in the city, one almost forgets what the stars look like. We sit on deck chairs with our necks thrown back, our eyes a little unable to process the millions of specks above. I am able to point out the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia, but the remainder are sort of like playing connect the dots to make up one’s own constellation, complete with legend and moralistic ending, such as “Don’t have sex with Zeus if you don’t want to be turned into an alligator”.

The oddest thing, though, is how the stars fade away as they are overtaken by the glare of the city across the water. At night, its orange-ish hue overtakes the horizon, surrounding it in an almost toxic looking bubble. It doesn’t look like a series of skyscrapers or filled with ant-like swarming people, but rather one massive tinted entity. It is odd to realize that I am usually situated smack-dab in the middle of that haze, and that, looking out from that end of things, I cannot even see this island, without the telltale markings of streetlights and billboards.

***

PS. In case you can't tell, paradise tends to be an internet-free zone... hence why I am sitting on the side of the road with my laptop right now, scoring some free wifi, like the classy tourist that I am.

Any Friday night

Friday night.

As the elevator doors slide open, a heel materializes at its entrance, followed by a toppling woman, wine glass in hand. Once we reach the night air, we are greeted by a green balloon, bouncing down the middle of the street. A survivor if I've ever seen one.

E. turns to peer down a corridor. "The hookers are out. I always feel as though I am out too late if they are around when I am heading home."

Prostitutes as any sort of litmus test seems like very much like a big city phenomenon.

I've decided to ride the Night Bus tonight, rather than risking the peril of hunting for the elusive taxicab amongst the drunk and flailing. I'm now merely a bridge away from downtown, which makes small places with loud people vastly more tolerable. The path to the bus shelter, though, cuts directly through the "entertainment district".

The "entertainment district" is a very strange place indeed for the non-smashed. Even having consumed enough wine to hover at the giggling stage is not enough for this street to feel natural. I feel as though I stand out, like an anthropologist of sorts, merely by virtue of my flat shoes. Although I'm sure the canvas shopping bag thrown over my shoulder with a board game peaking out isn't helping with the blending.

At the mouth of any alley, three girls crouch precariously on their narrow heels. One is sobbing, the other has her arms thrown around her. The third is perched with a camera in hand, apparently seeking the perfect angle to catch the sparkle of her friend's tears.

As I wait for the bus, I slide my headphones in, but my finger hovers over the play button. I am torn between wanting to fully observe the scenes playing out in front of me, or simple distraction. I choose the former for five minutes, until eventually pressing my finger down. The world in front of me looks like the most surreal of music videos.

I need to be reminded to turn off the social scientist sometimes.

The fear factor (or, no, this post is not about Joe Rogan)

The ability of fear to control me is a bit of a sore spot at the moment.

As mentioned before, I like to consider myself reasonably independent. I live alone, and, while I'm cautious, I'm generally free from the catastrophic fears that apparently plague women residing by themselves (e.g., every sound is a burglar), other than the eight-legged kind. I work with criminals and the mentally ill without massive catastrophizing. My neuroses and ruminations tend to stick to the fairly everyday realm.

However, it is funny how quickly that all can change-- especially ironically when in my last week of living alone.

I was out late tonight at an end of semester potluck on campus (a bunch of clinical psychology students and profs watching and overanalyzing "In Treatment" = awesome). On the bus ride home, a classmate and I were seated near the back of the bus, chatting about something mundane in the realm of course selection. Suddenly, from the front of the bus, a man turns around, and starts frantically shushing me. I meet his eyes, confused, as there are a number of other people yammering away. The eyes staring back at me are angry, and profanities start coming from his mouth, indecipherable, but definitively directed at me. As he turns back to face the front window, several other bus riders meet my eye, looking as confused and concerned as I am. I am too frightened to get off the bus and begin my 5 block walk home without him leaving first. Oddly, he gets off at my stop, and I stay on for two extra stops, preferring a longer walk to another chance encounter with this fellow with an inexplicable disdain for me.

As I paced home, eyes open to every dash of movement, forcing my guy to remain on the phone with me and listen to my breath until I made it through my front doorway, it occurred to me how much power was in than less than a minute interaction. I'd gone from feeling confident to afraid in the period of a moment. And I find that, and the fact that I'm still feeling more chilled than normal in my own home, absolutely infuriating.

N/S, N/P, no money

I'm beginning to rethink the animal kingdom hierarchy I learned in high school biology.

You know, humans above non-human primates, moving down to other mammals, with microscopic dung-balling insects at the bottom.

Well, in my reorganization, landlords in this city are even further down the hierarchy than the dung denizens.

I tried to greet our re-re-entry into the rental market (after flaky-almost-landlady decided to sell our perfect apartment mere days after telling us we could rent it) with a sense of optimism. After all, the month is just beginning!

After a wasted Sunday spent wandering for hours, alternatively in sopping boots or crammed into an open house in an apartment described as "roomy" but really better described in apartment ad speak as "cozy" (which really means sardine can), my optimism feels a little in the puddles right now.

It's hard to conceive of the fact that when I rented my first apartment, only seven years ago, I got a large suite for a third of the price I can now afford-- yet I'm hard pressed to find a place even as nice as the first one! It all is a little dejecting that we are in the best financial shape of our lives, yet we can't seem to improve our living situation. For instance, we looked at an apartment that was easily the same size as my little garden suite, with a kitchen that two people couldn't even stand in at once, for $500 more a month. Am I outrageous for thinking that paying in the quadruple digits a month should include a lack of mold or water damage and something other than that ubiquitous threadbare beige carpet? 

Even worse is how quickly the decent places get scooped up. There's is literally no time to consider. Three of the four places we looked today were open houses with many other people floating around, with each trying to outshine the others. When 23-year old hipster girls are flirting with a 60-something landlord, it's time to check out. Not to mention how landlords give you the apparently "first" available showing time, only to rent it out before then. Or the one who managed to rent it out in the two hours I was in a meeting after I had gotten in contact with them!

And I've mentioned the frustration of navigating through apartment rental ads to begin with...

Honestly, we may just put some stuff in storage and move the Duke into my suite until we find something worthwhile. It is better than putting $500 more a month into some jerk's pocket to move into the same apartment somewhere else. I'm just feeling grumpy that despite looking professional and financially secure on paper, it feels like the city wants to keep me at 18.

Currents

An undercurrent of anger runs through the veins of the city.

Sure, we mostly manage to disguise it through carefully crafted pleasantries, or random acts of kindness that do an astonishing job of pushing it deeper.

But every so often this river flows to the surface. It may seep into the ground slowly, tinging everyday interactions with red. Then again, it may explode like a spurting geyser.

The other afternoon, I was crossing a busy street with a friend. Suddenly, out of the window of a passing pick-up truck overflowed an angry torrent. Directed, no less, at a breed of dog.

"I HATE POODLES! I FUCKING HATE POODLES SO MUCH! THEY SHOULD ALL DIE!!"

Venom dripped through the window, so vehement and all consuming was his rage. And, as I, jaws agape, drew closer to the sidewalk, I realized that he was spitting out these words not only at the 30-something woman walking the dog, but also aiming them at her two daughters, who couldn't have been above the age of eight.

(As an aside, this is where my anger took over, once I started thinking about how traumatizing it would be to be eight, and to love your dog so fiercely, only to have someone throw such hate at her. At this point, I stopped in my tracks, and yelled at him for being such a profound scum bag for doing that in front of children.)

There is a man who lives across from me who is uncreatively referred to as "Angry Guy". He takes to the quiet, tree lined streets, mostly in the dead of night, to broadcast his fury. 

There are occasionally themes to his tirades, such as racial slurs or misogyny. But mostly he just screams "fuck off, you motherfucker", with such focused enunciation on every syllable, as though each time he shouts it, he believes it more and more.

His ferocity scares me. I don't know what it takes for someone to maintain such rage, to hold onto it until the dead of night, then to let it stream out, interrupted, only gaining in force until my piqued ears hear the sneaking sound of the police car turning, now a more regular visitor to this otherwise unassuming neighbourhood.

While I believe profoundly in catharsis, I don't understand these public expressions of anger, which only seem to be holding a flame to gasoline, rather than dousing it in water.

Then again, I don't really understand anger.

This is not to say I don't experience it.

It just perplexes me in its uncontrollability.

I know what to do with almost every other emotion, but when anger sweeps over me, I feel powerless. I pace. My head spins. It lurks in the back of my mind, and leaps out again, despite all the patented soothing attempts that work so well with sadness or anxiety. I grind my teeth and clamp my fists, willing the thoughts frantically colliding in my head to remain unexpressed. It's as though I need to experience something overwhelming to my senses to unclench, like a scalding hot bath.

The notion of savouring it, of nourishing it, of publicly declaring it, just feels a little absurd.

I would rather my river run dry before it reaches the surface.

Bus stop

As I stand, waiting, underneath a rare burst of wintertime sunshine, a homeless man, draped in an enormous coat, clutching a beer can inconspicuously cloaked in a wrinkled paper bag, hovers beneath the bus shelter beside me.

Nothing out of the ordinary in this city.

He strolls over to a nearby trash can to toss out his paperbag disguise, and his eyes meet mine as he turns back.

Blue eyes.

"Hi," he says through a grin peppered with missing teeth.

"Hi," I reply back.

"Aren't you from HomeTown?"

I stare back at him, stunned, and tug out my earphones. "Yeah, I am. You too?"

He nods.

We fall into a conversation, me with a latte in hand and an argyle scarf picked out to match my jacket slung around my neck, him clad in layers and stubble.

He recognizes me merely from "around". It occurs to me that he may be the older boy who lounged around the mall as I flitted about in ill-fitting uniforms in first and second jobs.

Whilst it seems to me that most people in his place would seek to tug their hoods over their eyes to avoid contact with those who knew their past or regale those from their past with tales belying their current condition, he is refreshingly earnest. He speaks of relapses and of trying to finding affordable housing while avoiding the ghetto, but also the positives of this particular city. He makes no excuses for where he is; he does not rant. He is not attempting to exchange a sob story for cash. He merely narrates. And, when my bus pulls up, he bids me goodbye, with nary a request. 

Interactions like this remind me of how thin the line is, of times when money was so tight I couldn't breathe, of random bursts of luck or misfortune that can collapse that pile of precariously balanced dominoes.

They remind me of the boy I knew growing up, who laughed and teased and sparkled, and then was somehow transported to a bench downtown, hundreds of miles from home, with the deadest eyes I'd ever seen.

And I am so grateful that yesterday's blue eyes still had some sparkle in them.

Change (and cold hands) are relative

My home town has a certain air of timelessness about it.

I spend my day-to-day life in a city that is constantly changing. A few weeks' eschewal of a route will lead to the surprise spouting of seemingly random buildings into any spare gaps upon my return, like weeds in a neglected garden. It often feels that stepping out my front door means an automatic sort of awareness or vigilance, as though you need to pay attention, lest all the constant moving and transformation sweeps you off what falsely seemed like stable ground.

Don't get me wrong-- I like that excitement, that sense of unexpectedness, that chaos that pulses from the city. I enjoy how it allows me to slip out of people's field of vision, and to just blend in with all the anonymous cacophony. I relish being able to watch screenplays develop before my very eyes, through the sheer variety of interactions and behaviours.

But, stepping off the plane today, I took a deep breath of fresh air, and it just felt as though the crispness held a bit more oxygen than usual.
Watching the snow-dusted scenery flicker by the car window, it's amazing how it feels like time has just slowed. I've been away from here for over six years now, and I feel the distance when I'm embroiled in the city life that has become my own. But these flickering images carry me back in a moment.

I can't explain the surrealism of being brought back instantaneously, as though these years have dissipated merely by the glimpse of a road sign.

The standard for change is suddenly different. It is no longer new condos and gang wars and train lines. It is now new paint on the pharmacy, the Mexican restaurant changing owners, a pregnancy announcement.

I took my sister's dog out for a walk tonight, with my pajama pants tucked into winter boots.
It was so quiet. My boots crunching and her collar jingling were the only sounds piercing the silence.
And, even though my hands were cold, it seemed so much more alive for my hands to be cold in that moment, rather than when they are being frantically stuffed in my pocket while waiting for a bus or running to work.