Neighborhood notes
1
A new coffee shop called “Coffee” opened down the street at the end of last month. The owner is a fan of motorcycles and fashion. He has a remarkable mustache that many have complimented. My neighbor gave birth to her second child at the beginning of this month. They haven’t decided on a name because they’re not sure who the child is yet, maybe because they sense her endlessness. They’ve been calling her by a name that begins with the letter ‘G.’
I sometimes forget what it feels like to be inside of a car. I’ve gotten used to walking around my neighborhood, and taking the train if I must go farther. Walking is an independent form of travel. I get to decide something in every moment; every step almost entirely made up of my own measurements. Where to go and when I will arrive depends solely on me and my volition. To ride the train, I have to give up this freedom and instead submit to lines and circles and time and bodies. A train is a decision in itself, only able to go from point A to point B, so one must make their choice carefully when the doors open to invite them inside. Bells ringing. This is not a malleable form of transportation, there is no letter between A and B.
Once on the train, there is a threat of intimacy. The strangers next to us, behind us, in front of us—their scents, their movements—the person whose neck is just inches from your nose—they have the potential of becoming familiar. Most of us choose to reject this reality, bent over our phones in worship, drowning out and dulling the sharp truths of a too-crowded shared space. Touch goes unacknowledged, as does discomfort or disdain. On the train, we are obedient, like sunflowers at night, heads down: facing no one and looking nowhere.
In a car, whether docile in the passenger seat while a friend drives, or timid while sitting in the back of a taxi while the driver mumbles incoherently about Destinations and Newly Opened Borders, I’m reminded of how to locate a different kind of freedom. Gliding. And the ease of Looking Out of Windows while in motion. To ride in a car is to be reliant on the driver; to place your life in the hands of someone else for 20 minutes—an hour, as if to allege: If I Die It Is Not My Fault, if we don’t get there on time it is Also Not My Fault. To be a passenger is to float. To let go of effort or exertion and control. It is a very mild and yet dangerous way to move.
I once had a red bicycle I named Fargo because she had “far to go.” In the first year of having her, we rode everywhere together. She was stolen from her perch outside my apartment in 2020 when she was at her worst: tires flat, and chain rusting from exposure to rain. When the bicycle disappeared, I hadn’t cycled in some time. I like to think she found someone who cycles more often.
2
Dialogues and notes taken during the month of October:
“They are wannabe fancy housewives.”
“It was kept quiet.”
“I’m not familiar with Halloween.”
“I don’t want to be the main character.”
“Trash = gomi ごみ ”
“It’s a vicious circle.”
“If a friend is not accustomed to surrealism, maybe I would feel uncomfortable too.”
3
The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. The borders are open. Does this mean the yen will get stronger?
We do!! :)
This reminded me so much of living in Madrid. I, too, preferred to walk--making my own way at my own pace, breathing in fresh air, rather than being squeezed in too tightly in the train or bus. Yes, that is freedom. I love how you talk about the other possibilities and all they entail/mean--especially the floating And then that wonderful series of pictures of all aspects of daily life in the city--some that we notice, but others that we forget to enjoy. Thank you!