Some people love the
hustle and bustle of cities. They love the crowds, the action, the sounds, the
smells. They relish the sense of opportunity, of possibility, or even
danger.
I’m not one of those
people.
Perhaps it’s because I
grew up in the country where the woods began at the edge of the lawn and the
wild lands of the Catskill Mountains were a
short hike beyond that.
Perhaps it’s because
I’m just two inches past five feet tall. In a crowd, I see shoulder blades and
shirt collars. I feel trapped. I get short of breath and dizzy. I want to scream
and run, but there’s no place to go.
Perhaps it’s because
I’m—in the words of my husband and others—a control freak. In a crowded city,
almost everything seems out of my control.
There are great
restaurants and theaters and museums in large cities. But no meal is so
terrific, no performance or exhibit so amazing, that it can alter my visceral
reaction.
So give me tall trees
instead of tall buildings. Give me millions of grains of sand on a beach instead
of millions of people in an urban area. Give me a view of mountains or a lake or
a river instead of a view of my neighbor’s living
room.
You take Manhattan. I’ll take a
walk.
