Postcards from the City

I am not from here. I am not from the city, not from the south, not from anywhere like this. So, as a tourist in this strangely familiar place, I write postcards in my head to people far away, people who do not see this place the way I do.

Everyone here wears shades of black and brown and serious. The outfits are always coordinated, but they pretend it's unintentional. It's not. Belts, shoes, accessories, designers, all mismatched to perfection, the epitome of sophistication. Their music is unintelligible: complex sentences set to tones of dulcet discontentment. No harmony is permitted, perhaps because it would be incongruous with the noise filtering in from the street. Minimalist sophisticates, gleaming without warmth.

The skyline glows and shimmers in the twilight. If I squint, I can pretend it is a forest of giant Christmas trees, with lighted branches dancing and winking, flirting with the moon. But when I smooth my features, the lines and rigid shapes return, the trees fade into towers. The buildings stand as stark sentinels, boldly proclaiming modernity and commerce. But they never dance in the breeze.

There's a certain charm to all-night diners. No gourmet here, but heavy sustenance is guaranteed. The late night wait staff is strange, and the customers are even more bizarre. The air is chilled, as though by turning the building into a refrigerator, memories of better days and more acceptable hours could be preserved. But the food is hot, and when everywhere else seems dark and lonely, the flourescent lights of the diner brighten the night.

The city is a perpetual motion machine. There is no lonely silence here. The streets and buildings are always buzzing with action and communication. Interaction never ceases and the air is thick with words and pheromones. The cacophony becomes music, the motion a dance; the city is an all day, all night gala event. Didn't you get an invitation?