Torn In-between
A Reflection on the Paradoxical Relationship with Living in a Metropolis
In 2021, 56% of the global population lived in urban areas [1]. This means that more than half of the world currently inhabits what is deemed to be urban areas, as opposed to the 1960s when this ratio has been much smaller (approximately 1/3 of the population). Urbanisation — the word I have heard countless times during my geography lessons at school. Urbanisation happened and brought all the other big words with it: growth, development, the rise of opportunities, and a more open, globalised world.
The World Bank touts the advantages of urban living — cities offer better conditions to solve social and environmental problems, bring higher quality public services, and present listless opportunities, whether it comes to jobs or female/minority empowerment. Some say there is a certain cost to it, as to all the great and big things. Big city blues, emotional toll, social stress, mental illnesses. Sometimes even more than a blues — a whole different brain physiology [2].
I am writing this essay, having just finished Jessica Andrew’s “Saltwater,” sitting curled up on the couch in my flat in Rotterdam. “Saltwater” can be seen through different angles, as a coming-of-age tale, a psychological portrait of a shattered family, or a study of the mother-daughter relationship, but it usually is the perspective closest to our present musings and fears that resonates the most. For me, this perspective has been the relationship with living in the city.
Lucy, the protagonist of the book, takes us on a journey through her experiences in search of identity in diverse places. The narrative weaves through different periods of her life spread across three locations — her childhood in the English mid-size town of Sunderland (170,000 inhabitants according to the 2021 Census), her student days in London (9 million inhabitants of Greater London area), and her current life in the small Irish town of Burtonport, Donegal County (1,100 inhabitants of Burtonport according to welovedonegal.com).
Like most teenagers, she longs to leave the town and fantasises about what the big city can bring: “The possibilities of all the different kinds of people I could be; the books I might read and the parties I might go to, shimmered elective above the telephone wires.” Yet, for her, the city becomes a place of unfulfilled promises.
The city promises space for which Lucy is endlessly longing. Physical space, but also metaphorical space to be whoever she wants to be. She longs to be somebody, but always somebody other than herself, and believes she will finally find this in the city. These promises are never fulfilled, though. Lucy finds herself alienated by the “money and ambition” that the city is built upon but which she does not possess. Her thoughts seem to her as squeezed into “too-small spaces.”
She feels insignificant and invisible, a ghostly presence watching others. “I watched these people from my vantage point behind the bar. I noted the colour of their fingernails and the smell of their perfume, and how many times they went to the toilet in one night. They did not notice me.” It is only when she moves back to her grandfather’s cottage in Burtonport, a tiny fishing village, that she finally finds what she was looking for: “There is so much space here. Space to breathe and spread myself out. (…) There is room to grow and think about things, as opposed to the city where everyone clamours for the same sad vantage point from a dirty train window.”
The city promises entertainment. As she prepares for her college admissions interview, her teacher poses the question, “Why London?” and she eagerly replies, “Museums. Art galleries. Literary history? (…) I want to be at the center of things.” Cities promise multitudes of excitement, a never-ending array of novel experiences, too many to ever fully partake in. Kevin A. Lynch, an American urban planner, captured the essence of this experience already in the 60s: “At every instant, there is more than the eye can see, more than the ear can hear, a setting or a view waiting to be explored” [3].
And usually, they do deliver on that promise. Lucy reminisces about the parties, the dancing, or cycling through the bustling streets, “one hand on my handlebars and the other trailing through the air, catching invisible threads.” For her, those were the rare moments of bliss when she felt that the city is hers. And still, it seems like this has not been enough to make the city her place to be.
She finds herself overwhelmed by stimuli, “constantly bombarded by adverts on the tube and billboards and posters and music and announcements and snippets of other people’s conversations.” In Burtonport, however, she observes that she can detach completely from the outside world, to retreat into a place where it simply does not exist, unless purposefully sought.
The city promises opportunities. The city is “(…) a shape that could not be classified, shifting and moving, infinite possibilities hanging from the streets like fruit.” Lucy imagines that living in London will bring“(…) a future of tote bags and house plants.” The city promises glamour, especially to our teenage-old selves.
When I think about a city inhabitant, I, similarly to Lucy, imagine a fashionable businesswoman with her (counterfeited) LV bag, high heels, and haste in her eyes. Whatever she might be doing, she certainly is important. The city promises a life unlike any other, a bright future, one that my teenage self imagined with inspiration from the images drawn by Suits and Gossip Girl.
But it is not only about these simple status-related opportunities; it is so much more. It is the hope and possibility of sudden shifts in the trajectory of our lives — encounters with the love of our life, a friend, or a business partner. Who we are and what we have today do not dictate our future. “I liked the feeling of walking down a teeming street and knowing that an important person yet to appear in my life might be walking right by me, and I would never know.”
She grapples with her paradoxical preference for a non-urban life despite her fear of predetermined and stagnant existence, like it does outside of London, she still prefers it. There is also a sense of loneliness that appears to pervade her existence in the bustling metropolis, even when in the company of a romantic partner. In Burtonport, she no longer feels lonely but instead, “gently isolated.”
And here I am, getting to the crux of my reflection — Lucy does not idealise small-town life. She perceives it with a clear and discerning eye, recognising its flaws and blemishes: the alcohol addiction problems (“many of the young men in Donegal have shaking hands”), the prevalence of gossip (“news travels fast in this small place”), and the inability to escape one’s past. She tries to reconcile her conflicting feelings in no other way than simply by taking note of them.
This act of reflection leads to her realization — “It isn’t something more, just something else.” Lucy takes note of both sides of a coin, for instance, how the beauty of the endless skies and the vastness of space scare her. The lack of distractions in such a life can be both a blessing and a curse — leaves her feeling trapped with her thoughts, unable to escape them. She accepts the darkness of such life; it might even seem that she longs for it. She also still, from time to time, ponders if leaving London was the right decision. “What if this is not the right way to live?”
Is the city a better or worse place to live? Similarly to Lucy, I was born in a small village in the Southern part of Poland. My childhood memories include picking up wild flowers on verdant meadows, playing in a tree house constructed for me by my grandfather, or chasing the neighbour’s chickens out of our yard. I was then raised in a mid-size town with one small shopping centre that served as the gathering spot for us after school, a park, two cinemas (but no multiplex), and the absence of the global staple, McDonald’s.
It was during high school when I began to dream of the city, especially after a trip to Warsaw with my friends, during which I visited my future university and took a first bite of the big city life. Space, novelty, excitement, entertainment, and opportunities — I have encountered it all there, and I longed for it ever since. Returning to the greyness of my hometown somewhere in the “suburbs” of Poland seemed no longer bearable.
And just like Lucy, after finally saying goodbye to my hometown and becoming one of the city residents, I experienced my honeymoon period with metropolitan life ending much sooner than I could ever expect. I started feeling suffocated, overwhelmed with sensations. I started feeling tired of how everything moves so fast, how there is no time and space for reflection. Everything changes, seems to be in a state of never-ending flux, in the pursuit of something greater. I felt like a stranger to myself, detached from my inner life, always in a hurry to complete a to-do list, attend social events, or rush onto public transportation, running late for lectures or work.
And paradoxically again, despite all the liveliness, tempo, and pulse, I began to experience the city as increasingly empty, devoid of something that seemed like a crucial substance of life. I could not quite put my finger on what that was, but I knew I would not find it there. Moving from Warsaw to Rotterdam was my hope to change things for the better (Warsaw being much more metropolitan than Rotterdam), but it did not. Maybe it was something about these two particular cities; they seem so different and, at the same time, so similar, both old and young at once, marked by their past and the bombs that tore them apart.
Moving to the metropolis coincided, both for me and Lucy, with entering the 20s — the rite of passage into adulthood and university (which, due to my following a doctoral degree, I still have not left). As I reflect on this time, especially its early days, one word comes to mind — an imposter. “I have to dress myself up in the right kinds of clothes so that people can guess that I am thinking the right thoughts, but what thoughts are the right thoughts, and haven’t they all been thought before?”
This is how I felt, and still sometimes feel. Trying to be somebody, to show that I belong, while struggling to figure out who I truly was amidst it all. And being permanently ashamed of all these thoughts, of not being just happy the way it is, grateful for the opportunities that life gave me. “When I arrived in London, I wasn’t cool or collected, and I felt ashamed of how desperately I wanted a chance. It is embarrassing, or entitled, or greedy to want things in a city where so many others are wanting.”
To my surprise, I discovered unexpected consolation on every trip back home, sitting on the veranda, listening to the rustle of moving trees and birds chirping. Was it as simple as that, missing nature and the connection to something more permanent? I started to seek these rare occasions in the city. During the pandemic, we, the city dwellers, seemed to massively rediscover what we are missing when we become confined within our walls and suddenly devoid of all the shiny things that the city could ever offer, chasing the snowy owls throughout Central Park [4].
Last year, for the first time, when I sought a holiday destination, I found myself browsing through Airbnb categories such as “countryside,” “off-the-grid,” and “cabin.” Am I now just another urbanite-turned-villager tale? I do not know. But my suspicion is there is something more to that, and maybe the elusive essence that I cannot quite articulate holds the answer to that question.
Paradoxically, so far, I find myself unable to imagine living permanently beyond the reaches of the metropolis. The notion of moving far away from the “centre” for good fills me with anxiety. I would like to reveal to you the precise reason why is it so, and even if saying it overwhelms me, I am still going to do it: it is that same reason I dislike the city for.
With the city being an unfavourable ground for reflection, in all the noise and stimuli, we are allowed to forget about who we are, what we feel, and how we live. And more often than one would think, we accept that possibility with relief. It takes maturity and inner strength to cope with not being able to do that. I hope one day I will find them.
If you want to read more:
[1] Urban population (% of the total population). The World Bank. Retrieved January 29, 2023, from https://data.worldbank.org/indicator/SP.URB.TOTL.IN.ZS
[2] Meyer-Lindenberg, A. (2013). Big city blues. Scientific American Mind, 24(1), 58–61.
[3] Lynch, K. (1964). The image of the city. MIT Press.
[4] Andy Newman. (January 28, 2021 Thursday). Snowy Owl Is Spotted in Central Park, for First Time in 130 Years. The New York Times
