Everything here is flat and wide and spread out. The
buildings are squat, the streets are wide and black and busy, but there is a
wonderful greenness all around. The air smells sweeter and feels cleaner. The
napkins at restaurants are wider and more absorbent. There are toilet seat
covers and paper in the bathrooms. The streets are devoid of paper scraps; fences
and walls are not covered in signs announcing apartments for rent, services
provided, and animals for sale. The sidewalks are wide. There are houses with
green yards and two or three front steps and colorful doors. The sidewalks are
smooth, monotone gray, easy on my shoes. The passersby are thick and heavy; I
feel a natural inclination towards dislike when I hear them speak. Somehow my
own language has become a stigma. The waitresses are nice, they smile all the
time; they try to be helpful. The food is better but more expensive. I gawk at
the prices on jelly jars and sigh at my grocery receipts. There are more
trashcans. The dogs are all on leashes and there’s no shit on the sidewalks.
There are no people lingering in open plazas, sitting in the shade. The youth
is hidden away. At 2am, everyone goes home. We drive everywhere—our friends are
spread apart, the restaurants and bars are spread apart. There is no late night
bustle, no clumps of twenty-somethings drinking forties on steps or in front of
bars. I haven’t seen the sunrise yet.
It’s
sad how fast the magic fades, the magic of all these little things that once
seemed so symbolic, so intangible and achy. I’m thinking about this as I drive
across the Golden Gate Bridge, so foggy and solemn, so big. I’m thinking about
this as I lay in my big bed and feel very, very alone.
