Really, I've been a city girl for a grand total of three years. Despite this, my family suspects I've transformed into some bizarre and unrecognizable creature, as if $300 heels were fused to my feet like plum stiletto hooves. From the tone of our conversations, it's clear they think I spend my Tuesday nights doing jello shots off a flaming bar.
But what is it like? I wonder this sometimes, try to encapsulate it so that I can remember clearly if I'm ever ensconced in the suburbs with a garden and a creaking gate.
It's like this.
It's Thursday night at a book release party. You eat grapes and hand-made Turkish delight. You speak with people who are over the moon about their projects: their meat magazines, their voyages to Marrakesh. Everyone is the singer in the band. You take the bus to another reading in a different part of town.
Run into people on your circuit: some friends, some not. You know their romantic conquests and you theirs. Distribute and receive cards. Take too-expensive cab rides (this, the only part that aligns exactly with the plasticky television shows) or walk home eating french fries out of a paper bag. Pause to salt them twice.
In the morning, hop on a miniature trampoline to the tune of Tiny Dancer, clutching one-pound weights. Saturday morning is your choice of farmer's markets. Head to the one with live chickens and Vietnamese basil at $0.25 a bunch.
Read a book in the park. Write a book in the park. Ask the names of strangers' dogs. Walk through the alleys; watch German tourists photograph graffiti. Invite friends over for dinner; hold a contest for who can find the stinkiest cheese. Listen to "Cantaloupe Island" as you wash the dishes. Rinse, repeat.
photo by becca
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