Hiding in Plain Sight

I love cities - especially the ones with lots of foot traffic and lots of buzz. The buzz of people going somewhere, everyone with a purpose, everyone busy, everyone living his life expediently. I love New York particularly, and particularly I love to go there by myself. It's the most energizing feeling to me, to be walking the streets with milions and millions of people, all with so many things to do, all moving together toward completely different destinations. Everyone is present with the others, acknowledging the person inches away only with his silence and seeming indifference, but silently watching, from behind a newspaper, magazine, book, laptop or darkened sunglasses.

I enjoy the silent observation this kind of environment affords. It's what I think of as a quiet respect that is particular to certain areas and, let's just admit it: Lexington isn't one of them. Lexington is the kind of place where you walk on streets with a couple thousand people who are just hanging out, strolling maybe toward something, maybe toward nothing at all...and chances are if they are walking somewhere, they are walking to the same place (there aren't that many places to go) and they might even be talking about it to one another as they go - sacrelige, right? I used to think so. It was a confounding and confusing thing when I first arrived in a town where the people presumed to trespass on my private public observations with a greeting or friendly question.

My brother even came into town to visit once bearing the startling story of a gas station attendant who offered, in addition to correct directions, a bit of friendly conversation. It was the first thing he told me about when he arrived at my house.

After a few years, I got more than used to it. I loved greeting the parking garage lady every Saturday night when I was headed out with the girls - the one who wears the gloves all winter. I enjoyed making small talk with the girl behind the desk at the gym as she handed me my towel, the people at the coffee shop every morning standing in the line with me. I made friends with the barista, the mailman, the woman who always walked her dog at the same time as me, the jeweler down the street, the restaurant owners in the neighborhood, the cashier at Kroger. I came to enjoy the combination of observation and interaction.

Here I feel like I'm deprived of both sides, though. I glance at the women here and they're shrouded, cut off, free to observe and cut off from interaction. That's not a social commentary on veiling, it's more an expression of the desire to interact more with this culture that is so private, so protected. I can't speak to the men and I sit next to these mysterious women and see only sometimes their eyes, hands and feet. I draw all the conclusions I can about each one from their abbayas, their handbags, shoes, the appearance of their children. They or their children gently bump into me and they look up with silent pardons. I always smile back at them and wish I could say something to them. Something that might start a conversation, a friendship, create an environment where I could ask more questions.

I wonder, and can't recall, what question or statement it was to which I first grudgingly responded...not that it would be the same here. Or maybe it would.