I recently had to return to the apartment in which I used to live. I am sad to say, but it was mainly because I had left a very expensive bag of popcorn there.
Yes, you heard me right. It's worth it! For real!
Anyways, enough about my eating habits. I just wanted to describe how I feel.
I exited the subway at Main Street, and started seeing the familiar faces I had left behind. The crack addicts, the immigrant women who are working harder than their husbands, the empty stores that only convey sadness and lonely shopkeepers by the till.
The bakery that sells the exact same products as the grocery store (down to the bread supplier) at highly inflated prices. The rotating business building that has had three kebab shops go bankrupt in it and one greek chicken cafe that is as empty, just as the others were, probably soon to be bankrupt as well. The apartment building that tries to convince people that $1200 in an immigrant area far away from anything is cheap rent.
And I realize, as I walk, that it is a noisy place. As I go by the Indian-style Chinese restaurant that is actually a hidden gem in the area, I wave at the single, ancient Chinese cook that works there. He's a good man.
I walk up the stairs, and I smell the same smell I always smell in the evening--the Korean family next to us cooking a better dinner than I'll ever get to serve in this area. It always smells like family dinner, well prepared, and prepared with care.
I say hi to Murray, I try to help the new roomie with the internet connection. We chat and I leave with a bag; I discover the bag is filled with old shoes, garbage by the nicest name, and other things I really wish he had just chucked. I pet Sydney, who with loving caring, slobbers all over me and sheds half her winter coat onto my mittens. I absentmindedly shake the hair as I chat with Murray.
I leave.
As I go back, I think about why I left. My room was small. The nieghbourhood is questionable and full of transients. Sort of like me. And no one likes a reflection of their own impermanence.
One of the philosophers who is still alive that gets a lot of repute is Julia Kristeva. She is a Bulgarian-French philosopher who lives in France. She has written a lot about what it means to be a philosopher who lives on the outside of French society, and yet still manages to be part of its inner circle of intellectuals. She is a stranger in a strange land, always, because you cannot erase your past and simply 'be' French. You. Are. The Stranger.
I guess I am still asking, "Where should I be?" Because surprisingly, I find I feel less and less inclined to participate in big city life, less inclined to be in a place full of unhappy people, ekeing out their lives by living in patterns and habits that are too similar to who I am, there is too much difference, and not enough difference, all at the same time. I don't correlate well here. I am the stranger here, to this culture, to this culture of many cultures. And none of them appeal to me, or protect me from my own flaws and insecurities. I feel they just increase them.
I'm still searching for a place that makes me feel like I belong there. I know I'm not there yet, but someday soon, I'll pack everything up, and I'll leave here again. And I'll find something better. I'm sure of it.
