September 18 2007, 09:23 PM Shallots And Roads

I wandered down to the local convenience store a while ago to get a cup of coffee (I was out of coffee, and they keep half and half in the cooler) and maybe a pastry (they bake them there, some of them, and with luck they are warm). I was standing in line to pay when a gentleman came in clutching a map. He named a street, and asked us if any of us knew where that was.

Then, something remarkable happened. Those behind the counter, those of us in line, and those not yet in line: we had all heard of it, but none of us had any idea of where it was. We poured over the map, asked for hints, pointed in directions. Two members of the city police force came in and joined us; they had both heard of the street, too, but neither of them had any idea where it was, either. We all stood akimbo or hands on heads, utterly unable to help. In the end, we may have been able to offer him some aid; it's strange to know a place well enough to be able to use the gaps to help, and between all of us, we had a pretty good idea of where it wasn't.

I have only been here for seventeen years. I am not a native. A friend of mine who has spent more time in other places on both coasts has this to say about this place: "it's okay to be nice here." She has to remind herself of that from time to time. I have been here long enough to understand that part of it, at least.

For months and months, the shallots coming into the city have been poor. Reedy husks of paper with no weight, the same story everywhere, and no one to know why. Today at the market, though, stuck in the corner was a simple box of shallots, good and purple and plump.