I was with a friend in a cafe last night and the waitress was studiously ignoring us and the four other tables that were waiting for their bills. I finally caught her eye from across the room and made the universally recognized "bring the check" symbol - writing in the air. And suddenly I remembered all the nights in Kibuye when we sat into the night at the Guesthouse, with a waitress waiting off somewhere in the dark ignoring our every request until finally we could make her notice the writing in the air. The Guesthouse had (it's closed now) a cement triangle pointing out into the lake with three or four tables on it and a few lights on poles that were always too bright if you were facing them and too dim if your back was to them (you couldn't see your food). Out at the end, on a few rocks peeking above the water, the crested cranes stood looking out at the dark, making lowing noises every now and again.
I hardly remember what we talked about. Gossip if the VSOs were there. Tennis. Our home countries and how they compared. Something. I don't remember. I do remember looking out at the clouds and stars and moon over the lake, reflecting on the dark water. I do remember feeling the wind kick up and shivering even in my fleece. I do remember looking across the water and seeing the lights go on in my house when the power came back. I do remember the feeling of pure contentment to be in the moment I was in.
I would like that feeling to come more often in New York, but it doesn't. That feeling generally requires, for me, some beautiful nature around me. City streets and buildings don't do it. Lakes do it. Mountains do it. Oceans do it. Forests do it.
I felt it this summer standing on the beach in Liberia, standing on a huge rock formation and watching the lines of the waves white in the dark. I felt it years ago in Colorado, on a path winding up a mountain. I felt it in Nebraska, surrounded by empty fields. I felt it on the train through autumn-colored Connecticut this fall.
But not on the subway platform waiting for the A train. The best moment of the subway for me is when it comes out of the earth, like the N does in Queens or the F in Brooklyn. I feel released. This is how I know I'm not a city girl.
I hardly remember what we talked about. Gossip if the VSOs were there. Tennis. Our home countries and how they compared. Something. I don't remember. I do remember looking out at the clouds and stars and moon over the lake, reflecting on the dark water. I do remember feeling the wind kick up and shivering even in my fleece. I do remember looking across the water and seeing the lights go on in my house when the power came back. I do remember the feeling of pure contentment to be in the moment I was in.
I would like that feeling to come more often in New York, but it doesn't. That feeling generally requires, for me, some beautiful nature around me. City streets and buildings don't do it. Lakes do it. Mountains do it. Oceans do it. Forests do it.
I felt it this summer standing on the beach in Liberia, standing on a huge rock formation and watching the lines of the waves white in the dark. I felt it years ago in Colorado, on a path winding up a mountain. I felt it in Nebraska, surrounded by empty fields. I felt it on the train through autumn-colored Connecticut this fall.
But not on the subway platform waiting for the A train. The best moment of the subway for me is when it comes out of the earth, like the N does in Queens or the F in Brooklyn. I feel released. This is how I know I'm not a city girl.
1 comment:
the thing that works in colombia for getting someone to bring the check is to stand up and act like you're walking out without paying. that usually gets 'em.
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