Day 14: A Tale of Two Cities
Yesterday was lovely, top to bottom, with some sticky bits thrown in for good measure.
…leisurely morning spent writing…and a power outage (they’re becoming a bit regular) to make finishing/saving a bit of a challenge.
…wonderful creative time with new friends…and asshole pigeons wreaking havoc at the cafe.
…excitement around booking our first visit to Seville…wrangling the almost overwhelming details related to banking across continents.
…discovering the meaning behind the footprints painted on sidewalks…realizing the reason why they wouldn’t happen in the states.
…bravely going out to a bar to meet a bunch of women and finding one friend and making another…holding the weight of gun violence in my home town.
That last bit was with me all day.
Facebook is my news source (I know, I know) and it served up two stories relating to guns yesterday and the day before. In one, a friend witnessed a shooting. In another, friends were mourning the loss of an incoming kindergartener who wouldn’t live to see the rest of the year. Both of these happened in places with which I am deeply familiar. Both of these happened at “home.”
As we were working on making this move, lots of people asked, “why do you want to leave?” I didn’t understand why they didn’t understand. Here, at the event last night with women from all around the world (the small group I ended up sitting with represented Ecuador, Portugal, Dominican Republic, Czech Republic, Ireland, Malta, and me from the US), when safety came up it was the US that landed at the bottom of the list.
As a contrast, in this new city, this new home, these aren’t stories that happen. Graffiti? Yes. Petty theft? Yes (though I haven’t seen it happen myself) Squatters? Yes (again, from stories, not from experience even once removed). Panhandling/asking for money? Yes (but a countable number of people — I’m up to encountering 5 humans so far). Gun violence? Just plain no.
I rode the tram last night, leaving our neighborhood at a bit before 8 pm. The sun was just thinking about setting (days are long here) and the people around me were a mix of those heading out for the night and those heading home from work or whatever they’d done with their afternoon. The seats and spots reserved for riders in need of extra support stayed empty until someone who matched the little icons boarded. When I got to my stop I walked alone down semi-deserted streets to the little bar. When it was time to leave at 11:30 pm, another woman and I walked back down those semi-deserted streets together and waited for our tram. The security guards (not sure what else to call them) and a ticket-checker were on board making sure everyone had scanned their boarding card. The two “guards” were “armed” with batons — nothing else. The ticket checking person appeared to be a woman older than me by about 10 years (give or take because, of course, what does any specific age “look like”). When the tram lurched and she almost fell, the riders around her all jumped into action to keep her upright. When there were people caught without having scanned their passes, the “guards” held the doors for them at the next stop so they could either scan and return or just get off the tram. When my new friend’s stop came up she left to walk home alone without any “I’ll tell you when I’m there” or other safety checks.
I did ask Bill to meet me at my stop just because this whole “public transit alone at night” thing is so foreign to me. I won’t do that again, I don’t think, because I genuinely feel safe here.
I hurt for my home town. I hurt for my home country.
