I'm sitting in a coffee shop two blocks away from my future office, which I still haven't seen. I'm in the city under pretenses of finding housing, but actually to make it real. Most of my bets are hedged on a single place that sounded decent; my plan B is to show up with a suitcase and deal with it later.
This city is like a walking, breathing episode of What Not to Wear; as in track suit couture, pleather and a lot of clips in the hair of middle aged women. I am resisting making a selection of comments that my inner censor is telling me are unbecoming and belie the unspoken elitism that runs rampant in the city I'm leaving.
It feels like a step back in time, to the hole of a city I grew up in. The land that cool forgot; not as a result of purposeful defiance, like Britney Spears being 'country' or people who would rather spend weekends curling and quaffing Timmy Hos. The Metamucil of the urban, grit-lite. It probably has a vibrant arts scene, you know, contrast.
I'm hoping to be on a bus home in five hours.
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