Urban Tough, Urban Bold, Urban Style
I am not like her, a smartly done up 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 environment of gritty red and black, could be a glossy magazine advertisement for . . . something.
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-four years, you would think I might have acquired a more citified style, myself. And I have, but it's more inner than outer. 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, black, only-filled-with-stars-and-moon-sky.
I am also 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 inside me now, and it is always simmering, I am always stirring.
I have learned, too, how to hear and love my cat's tiny whistling snore, in the moments of respite between the vacillating roar of traffic at dawn.