All I Need Is a Small Place in the City
During the summer of this first year of COVID-19, we moved from the pulse of the city to the outskirts. Still within the city limits, but decidedly far away from all the action, it immediately felt so quiet.
It’s been just a month living in “the booneys.” Out here, my roommates and I can afford to rent a small house rather a series of tired bachelor suites or damp basement dwellings.
The groceries are cheaper. The space is plentiful. Coffee is only $1.50. But I cannot shake what I’ve come to know as “those little town blues.”
A Line Up At Main Street
Growing up in the prairies, I thought that the very best place in town was Main Street. It was alive.
Once, Mom and I waited in line at the bakery there. To wait in line was rare. At first it seemed inconvenient, then I felt the air tingling around us, everyone abuzz with conversation as the smell of fresh baking filled the air.
Maybe that is what people like about cities. How you can be surrounded by others but certainly not required to talk to them. It is the perfect way to enjoy human contact, in my opinion.
Rats In a Cage
I recall Dad saying that people in the city are like rats in a cage: they are trapped together. Perhaps, yet I find I need only a pair of headphones and a shard of space to myself to keep my sanity.
Being a city person doesn’t make me better or worse than you. It’s just something that cannot be helped.
Some of us were born city people. Though I never lived in a city until I went to college, I always craved the things a crowded metropolis could offer.
So Much Space
This house on the outskirts of the city has so many rooms. Could it be that there are too many?
There is finally enough space to amass furniture and electronics and appliances and boxes of things we won’t open until we move again. In this way, one can relax. Space can be “wasted.” It is not so precious anymore.
What a strange feeling to have so much space, even in this “small” house. Space is a luxury, no? How could I not appreciate having so much of it?
Truthfully — and I believe you may relate — an excess of space can be a burden. Constant cleaning and repairs soon become the all-encompassing hobby of the caretaker. I am ambivalent about this lifestyle.
City Grit
To romanticize the city without its flaws would not be fair, though. After all, it is not all warmth and glamour.
I used to walk past the same street people, morning and night, seeing their bodies deteriorate across what memories of them I had. It is not that this sort of human suffering doesn’t exist on the outskirts of the city, but it is a 15-minute walk from my home now instead of below my window.
Garbage and grease, kitchens without windows — that is the city. There is always at least one obnoxious human on the train.
Should you pause too long on the sidewalk, a commuter is sure to give you a dirty look. There is no time to be in the way in the city.
Some Like It Quiet
There are good things about this outlier of a neighbourhood. I don’t need to wear earplugs when I leave my window open. I can stop on the sidewalk to take pictures of the autumn leaves without blocking the promenade. The yard is my own private park.
But that is because there is not much to hear. People have less desire to walk these sidewalks. The yard seems entirely abandoned when it sits empty. It just doesn’t feel alive.
Safety In a Small Space
When we first viewed the house, I chose the little room with the short ceiling for my office. It reminded me of the den I had been renting in the city at the time.
I still like it best and have filled it to the brim with life — like how the city is filled with life. Warm lamps and dark wood flooring hug anyone who enters. Filtered light bounces through a single window framed by lovingly tended plants.
There is art everywhere. My favourite photograph of Manhattan hangs above the chaise. The entire room can be looked upon in a single glance. That’s really all the space I need.
