Blame it on my childhood obsession with “Wizards of Waverly Place,” my teenage obsession with “Gossip Girl” or my current obsession with Woody Allen movies — whichever you choose, I have always identified as a “city girl.” Despite never actually living in one, I considered the quick wit, chic fashion and curt attitude that define city life as key personality traits. This part of my self-image took a hit when I moved to Washington, D.C. this summer and failed to find my footing. Now, after spending 10 weeks in a big city, I am ready to admit that maybe I’m not a city girl after all.
Growing up in Scituate, Mass., a small coastal town on the south shore of Boston, I was constantly reminded by my parents and teachers that I lived in “The Scituate Bubble.” There was no crime, no chain stores allowed — except three Dunkin’ Donuts, of course — and no hubbub. The annual weekend-long carnival in the harbor parking lot was the closest thing we had even resembling hustle and bustle. The only other source of excitement was petty parents fighting in the Scituate Town Monthly Facebook page over yet another high school scandal.
By the time I was 16, I had my town down to a science. After clocking out of my daily shift as a high school student, I drove my Jeep Patriot — not to be confused with the sea of Jeep Wranglers in the school parking lot — the 4.2 miles to the nearby coffee shop, Marylou’s. Turning right out of the drive-thru, I rode along all my town’s seaside roads — a loop locally known as the “Scituate 500” — until my gas tank was empty or the ocean told me to go do my homework.
Whether I was counting down the minutes in class, driving on autopilot along the same empty streets or munching on fries in a fast-food parking lot two towns over, I found myself thinking about something bigger — bigger buildings, bigger dreams and bigger lives. I didn’t even care about how cliche the whole “small town girl dreaming about the bright lights and big city” thing was — I wanted out.
When the time came to think about college, I applied everywhere, but I really wanted to go to D.C., New York or Los Angeles. Well, turns out the schools in D.C., New York and Los Angeles didn’t really want me, so I ended up in Charlottesville. The summer before my first year, I almost exclusively referred to the University as “middle of nowhere Virginia.” I loved Thomas Jefferson, but otherwise, I wasn’t thrilled.
However, after three years, I can confidently say the University was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I love Charlottesville with all of my heart. I was totally and completely wrong about ever questioning it. With that being said, by the end of third year, I was eager to hang out somewhere besides the five bars I had gone to every weekend since orientation.
I landed an internship in D.C. for this summer, and the day after finals ended, I packed my life into an Amtrak-approved carry-on bag and finally moved to the big city ready to fulfill my dreams.
The thing is, it's really hot in cities in the summer — the asphalt and the exhaust and the reflections off the buildings all combine into one big blob of heat, and there’s no ocean breeze. That was the first thing I noticed. The second was that these prices make Grit latte prices seem like a Black Friday deal. Oh, and everything is far away, and I have a life-long fear of the subway — which I still refuse to call “the Metro.” So to avoid the nameless underground train thing, I walk everywhere, which brings me back to the heat.
All my University friends are allegedly here for the summer, but I barely ever see them because it turns out us all living “in D.C.” doesn’t exactly have the same meaning as us all living “behind the Corner.” To grab a coffee or hit happy hour with them, I have to travel multiple miles, which again brings me back to the heat, the prices and the train. And don’t even get me started on the crime.
Yes, I’m exaggerating. Yes, I sound like a little kid complaining about sleep-away camp in a letter home to her parents. Yes, there are parts of this city that I love. But after living here for 10 weeks, I’m starting to think small towns aren't as bad as the angsty 16-year-old me made them out to be.
Driving on the same roads around my hometown every day might have been boring at times, but didn’t I realize how comforting it is to recognize every house, street sign and tree like an old friend? Sure, the University only has five bars, but how did I overlook how much more fun it is to be served a drink from your friend’s class crush than some random guy. Nothing can replace the moment of human connection that comes with softly smiling at your neighbor passing by on the sidewalk with an unspoken recognition that you both know every idiosyncrasy of the same little microcosm of society. And somehow, that makes you friends.
I’m not saying that I hate cities or that I will never live in a city again. I most likely will. Big cities are hubs of creativity, catalysts for innovation and the axes around which culture revolves. There is an intangible energy and an excitement stirring in the air and all that stuff I dreamed about in vacant parking lots for so many years.
But at the risk of sounding totally lame, that’s all a little overwhelming to me. In reality, that vague, impalpable feeling I was chasing only increases my anxiety, not my excitement. I might value the people, the places, the houses and the trees I know so well and love so much over some adolescent desire for “something bigger.” Sure, there might not be too much going on in a small town, but I will no longer make the mistake of confusing peace with boredom.
I still have another three weeks in D.C., and I’m going to take in all the big buildings and all the big lights and all the city air. But when it’s time to return to Scituate, and then to Charlottesville a couple of weeks after that, I’m going to follow my old routines without complaint. I’m going to get Marylou’s, and seeing that girl I went to middle school with behind the counter is going to be the highlight of my day. And soon, I’m going to walk down the Lawn for the thousandth time and hear the birds chirping “Welcome back” with delight. Because maybe I’m not a city girl after all.
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