Yesterday I spent time navigating my old city. It was not a choice. I had been scheduled to work and ended up at the wrong address, largely because I believe I don’t want to be doing what II have been trying to determine if it’s the place where I want to lay my hat.
Wait.
That’s not true. I know I don’t want to settle there. I have just been trying to convince myself that it makes the most sense. There is a comfort in being there. I know the place. It is, to a degree, in my bones. But I don’t want to be there. Even in my current circumstance, which is less than ideal, I don’t want to return there and nest. Even as I write, effectively homeless, in limbo between my last destination and the next (wherever it may be), I prefer to remain where I am at the moment in a place, which is rather joyless to be quite honest.
What struck me about my city is the level of entitlement of most who live there. I see and hear it in acquaintances (that’s all I really have left there at this point, no one I’d call a friend in the strictest sense of that word) that still live there. It is a provincial place and insular despite being one of the top five largest cities in this country and a world class one to boot. That provincialism was always so hard for me. It shouldn’t be provincial, much like this country, but it is and that has always been difficult for me. I have lived in places where provincialism was expected and while I didn’t like it, it did make sense. I feel a bit like a stranger wondering how I managed to fit in all those years past. Did I display such levels of entitlement? Or, did I never entirely fit and instead just chose to ignore it because I didn’t know any better or frankly, because it was just easier. I know the answer.
I don’t mean to suggest that my city does not possess its charms. On the contrary, it can be glorious. Just not for me, at least not anymore.
If you are interested in joining our mailing list, please submit your email below. 
View Rachel Finn's profile