Big City v. Small Town
Yesterday I took the day off from work as part of a "summer Fridays" scheme we have at the office. It's a nice perk. After running errands and making a research trip to the library, I headed to my old neighborhood of Edgewater to meet a friend and former colleague who had just moved back to Chicago. She and her husband had sold their house only a few months ago and moved to a small town in another midwestern state in search of a quieter, less hectic life. If the move taught them anything, it taught them that they are city people. The pulse of a city is irresistable for some of us, try as we might to deny it. She was very happy to be back in the fray.
I understand.
I grew up in a small town. Well, officially, it was (and is) a "city first-class," according to the laws of Virginia. When I was growing up there, the population was around 10,000. Now it's about 20,000. I have a great fondness for the place, and I would love to have a summer home or a vacation cottage there, were I well-heeled (which I am not). I'm too used to urban living to make a full time commitment to the place, though.
About 12 years ago I gave it a try. I spent the summer there, trying to put down roots again, find a job I could live with (and live on), get my head around small-town life again. But I failed miserably. I got a few nibbles with regard to writing jobs, but none of them paid a living wage. I thought maybe I could go back to teaching (well, "go back to" is not exactly right--while I spent four years in grad school and after teaching English 101-102, and while I student-taught seniors in high school and received teaching certification in the Commonwealth of Virginia, I never earned a cent teaching in a public school), but my resume and follow-up calls to the various school districts in the area yielded nothing. This was before everyone was wired, so there was no way I could retain my freelance clients on the west coast and live on the east coast, even with an email account. I realized that I was going to have to temp for a while or take an admin job, and, while I'd been doing temp work to supplement my freelance work in San Francisco, the thought of temping in Waynesboro, VA, left me cold. In fact, it gave me the shivers. No. Couldn't do it.
Then there were other things--smaller, but just as important. There was no place to get a latte in the entire town. Or in the next town over. I had to go to Charlottesville for a latte. Now, I could have bought an espresso machine with steamer and made my own, but part of the attraction of getting a latte is going to a coffeehouse to get one. For me, at least. Of course, within a matter of a couple of years, several coffeehouses sprang up in the area, so I can get a latte, chai, or what-have-you with no problem when I return periodically to visit my mom. There's even a drive-through Starbucks, so Frappacinos are available. But they weren't then. It was a bleak summer, latte-wise.
Then there was the problem of Thai food--the utter lack thereof. To be honest, I don't know if this has been remedied yet after all these years. I'm sure there's a Thai restaurant in Charlottesville now, but I don't know about then. At any rate, I need my regular Tom Kha Gai fix. End of story.
Then there was the time I went to the local Kroger to pick up some salsa and chips to bring over to a get-together at a friend's house. There was no fresh salsa to be had. When I asked a store employee, I was pointed toward the salsa in a jar and told that it was plenty fresh--just check the date. Oy.
And then there was the man who came up to me at a local play (my brother was the director of a youth production of some Rice-Webber extravaganza) who told me how the whole church had been praying for me and my fibroids!!! Oh, thanks Mom!! (I had been diagnosed with a tiny fibroid before I left SF to try my hand at small-town life--when I returned to the city by the Bay and had a follow-up, it was gone, so maybe there was something to that praying. Or not. But really. Thanks for sharing my uterine health with a bunch of elderly strangers, Mom.) There are few secrets in a small town, no matter how you try.
Cities have lots of latte purveyors. You're likely to find a Thai restaurant (or more) per block in some urban areas. And even Waynesboro has fresh salsa now, so that's not an urban thang (or a regional thang) any longer. And it's a trade-off between having everyone know your business and not knowing the first thing about the person who lives across the hall from you. There's a pulse and an energy that pervades urban life that is very possibly addictive (for me, at least). And yet, there is a price to be paid for city life--in terms of increased crime, decreased human contact even as there are way more humans to establish contact with, and expensive housing, no matter whether you rent or own.
For me, the city still rules. However, it would be nice to have it both ways--to have a place in the city and one in a beautiful place with fewer people and a more leisurely everyday pace (like at the foot of the Blue Ridge or in the North Woods of Wisconsin). A place to relax and a place to recharge. Now, wouldn't that be cool?
I understand.
I grew up in a small town. Well, officially, it was (and is) a "city first-class," according to the laws of Virginia. When I was growing up there, the population was around 10,000. Now it's about 20,000. I have a great fondness for the place, and I would love to have a summer home or a vacation cottage there, were I well-heeled (which I am not). I'm too used to urban living to make a full time commitment to the place, though.
About 12 years ago I gave it a try. I spent the summer there, trying to put down roots again, find a job I could live with (and live on), get my head around small-town life again. But I failed miserably. I got a few nibbles with regard to writing jobs, but none of them paid a living wage. I thought maybe I could go back to teaching (well, "go back to" is not exactly right--while I spent four years in grad school and after teaching English 101-102, and while I student-taught seniors in high school and received teaching certification in the Commonwealth of Virginia, I never earned a cent teaching in a public school), but my resume and follow-up calls to the various school districts in the area yielded nothing. This was before everyone was wired, so there was no way I could retain my freelance clients on the west coast and live on the east coast, even with an email account. I realized that I was going to have to temp for a while or take an admin job, and, while I'd been doing temp work to supplement my freelance work in San Francisco, the thought of temping in Waynesboro, VA, left me cold. In fact, it gave me the shivers. No. Couldn't do it.
Then there were other things--smaller, but just as important. There was no place to get a latte in the entire town. Or in the next town over. I had to go to Charlottesville for a latte. Now, I could have bought an espresso machine with steamer and made my own, but part of the attraction of getting a latte is going to a coffeehouse to get one. For me, at least. Of course, within a matter of a couple of years, several coffeehouses sprang up in the area, so I can get a latte, chai, or what-have-you with no problem when I return periodically to visit my mom. There's even a drive-through Starbucks, so Frappacinos are available. But they weren't then. It was a bleak summer, latte-wise.
Then there was the problem of Thai food--the utter lack thereof. To be honest, I don't know if this has been remedied yet after all these years. I'm sure there's a Thai restaurant in Charlottesville now, but I don't know about then. At any rate, I need my regular Tom Kha Gai fix. End of story.
Then there was the time I went to the local Kroger to pick up some salsa and chips to bring over to a get-together at a friend's house. There was no fresh salsa to be had. When I asked a store employee, I was pointed toward the salsa in a jar and told that it was plenty fresh--just check the date. Oy.
And then there was the man who came up to me at a local play (my brother was the director of a youth production of some Rice-Webber extravaganza) who told me how the whole church had been praying for me and my fibroids!!! Oh, thanks Mom!! (I had been diagnosed with a tiny fibroid before I left SF to try my hand at small-town life--when I returned to the city by the Bay and had a follow-up, it was gone, so maybe there was something to that praying. Or not. But really. Thanks for sharing my uterine health with a bunch of elderly strangers, Mom.) There are few secrets in a small town, no matter how you try.
Cities have lots of latte purveyors. You're likely to find a Thai restaurant (or more) per block in some urban areas. And even Waynesboro has fresh salsa now, so that's not an urban thang (or a regional thang) any longer. And it's a trade-off between having everyone know your business and not knowing the first thing about the person who lives across the hall from you. There's a pulse and an energy that pervades urban life that is very possibly addictive (for me, at least). And yet, there is a price to be paid for city life--in terms of increased crime, decreased human contact even as there are way more humans to establish contact with, and expensive housing, no matter whether you rent or own.
For me, the city still rules. However, it would be nice to have it both ways--to have a place in the city and one in a beautiful place with fewer people and a more leisurely everyday pace (like at the foot of the Blue Ridge or in the North Woods of Wisconsin). A place to relax and a place to recharge. Now, wouldn't that be cool?
posted by Cathy VanPatten at 11:13 PM
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