sunshine_queen | (no subject) (Reply)

I wonder what it would be like to go to school in the city, to not be surrounded by the comfort and relative quiet that is Gainesville, to step off campus and be greeted by skyscrapers and endless traffic instead two-story buildings and polite traffic.

(Cars are not always so polite, no. Sometimes they honk to startle you or scream obscenities meant to entice you, or sometimes, sometimes they hit police officers who are doing their jobs after a championship won and the driver laughs and gives other officers the bird.)

I wonder what it would be like not to have a horrible fear of the unknown, of strangers and dark streets and things that go bump in the night, things that sometimes you can pretend don't exist here: not pretty Gainesville, not UF, who just installed twenty-odd more lights for the field between the journalism building and the Reitz because it was too dark for the students to walk safely.

(Not always safe, see: Danny Rolling.)

Miami wouldn't work, no, too spread out, not enough bustle. A little less conversation, a little more action. No walking there, too hot and too far, a city spread across limestone, a few feet below sea level, flood insurance and hurricane evacuations. New York, perhaps? Loud and bustling, don't smile and get an attitude, for Christ's sake. I'd take the subway, keeping my bag close to my side, zipped tight or buckled or just closed, for god's sake, gripped shut. Would I walk or take the subway to get away? Would I even leave?

(I'm cynical, kind of, less cynical and more pragmatic and sometimes people get angry at that. They think because I don't show emotion then I don't care. I do, I just hide it better. Jealous?)

Paris? How about that? I picture Paris as it was when I was there, mostly grey in color, but heartbreakingly beautiful and wonderful and everything I had dreamed of and more. The metro there is startlingly easy, but some parts- some parts. Crowded with people who'd try to pick your pockets, people who case you and wait for you to get separated from the groups. This is for you, madame, the pickpockets, they will look at your wallet. My mother, who comes from Miami, where there are no pickpockets, because you can fan out a peacock's tail of hundreds and no one bats an eye.

(I'm forgetting my french and it terrifies me. I speak it in my head sometimes; I'm horrible at conjugation. I can't remember vocabulary sometimes- Armel had to remind the word for gloves and embarrassed me, gants gants gants. J'aime bien français, les c cedilles et l'accents aigu et grave et le petit chapeau chinois, Édith Piaf et la vie en rose, des grandes églises et touts les mots que j'ai oublier. J'ai faim pour les mots français, des personnes français, La Marseillais et La Marianne.)

I'm going home, home home home tomorrow and I'll happy for a day or two and wish to return, or at least to leave. I need a job desperately if I intend to go to France, je suis une etudiante pauvre. There are worse things, I know, but I've never worked before and I can't remember what St. Madeleine is the saint of, strung around my neck like a charm.

(Mary Madgalene, patron saint of: apothecaries; Atrani, Italy; Casamicciola, Italy; contemplative life; converts; glove makers; hairdressers; penitent sinners; people ridiculed for their piety; perfumeries; pharmacists; reformed prostitutes; sexual temptation; tanners; women)

It's cold in here and my mother comes tomorrow.