I am not like her, a smartly done up urban woman walking briskly down the street, a swirling array of long scarves bunched fashionably around my neck, coffee-to-go in hand, a bold red wall branded with black graffitti as my backdrop. This woman, in this particular environment of gritty red and black, could be a glossy magazine advertisement for . . . something I am not.
No, I am not like her, but I like her -- this smart, brisk urban woman. She has stamped herself onto the world, she is confident and sure-footed.
Having lived in San Francisco for the last thirty-two years, you would think I might have acquired a more prominent urban style, myself. And I have, but it's more inner than outer. I have learned, for example, to assimilate sounds in a different way. I am more accepting of cacophony, more appreciative. I can embrace the co-existence of jack hammer with the whisper of a breeze through stalwart urban trees.
The silence of a small town at night amazes me now. The last time I visited friends in Sonoma, I walked down the sidewalk past dark-windowed houses, and the quiet felt as vast as the wide, filled-only-with-stars-and-moon-sky. Oh, and there was also the blackness. Total, immense blackness, or so it seemed to me from my urbananite's point of view.
As far as people and social activities go, I have remained mostly a loner, often a hermit. I have a handful of dear friends, many of whom scamper from restaurants to theaters to museums to literary readings as I sit alone on my comfie couch, feeling fulfilled and relieved by the fact that I know so few of my neighbors' names. But at the same time, there is a melting pot of people/cultures/ethnicities and differences that lives inside me now, and it is always simmering, and I am always stirring it -- with fascination and gratitude.
My bold urban style does not manifest in the realm of fashion or social whirlwinds, but I have changed in other ways. For instance, I now know how to hear and love my cat's tiny whistling snore, even when beset by the roar of traffic at dawn.
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I, however, live in the country and am a bit annoyed when the occasional cars go by on the road, disturbing the otherwise deep silence. And at night, it's darker than in Sonoma I bet, with the milky way visible except at full moon.
My sonic senses are not as attuned as yours... I'd trade my acute sense of smell with your hearing capabilities any time. *hit me up if you're game*
Occasionally though, I feel a shabby human being for not getting to know my neighbors. Then I remember they aren't the most pleasant people to be around. This hasn't always been the case. It's a city by city basis. My current location is not conducive to liking people.
Terrific piece Jane and I'm glad I stumbled across it.
"For instance, I now know how to hear and love my cat's tiny whistling snore, even when beset by the roar of traffic at dawn."