These city lights, they shine in silver and gold
I spent the weekend in Seattle.

I went there for the first time when I was little, when every place that wasn't home looked big. But after I attended a college with a population the size of my former county and revised the scope of the world a bit, I cobbled together this friendly vision of Seattle from a bit of memory and a bit of imagination and a bit of comparison. The problem, I discovered later, was that I'd squashed the city into much too small a box. So when I drove there alone for the first time, trying to keep my cool amid a crush of manic drivers, I wasn't prepared when I turned the last bend and the sweep of the city suddenly appeared -- and kept going. And going.

Whoa, I thought. Back that trolley up. I don't remember this.

And it scared me.

Cities are strange. They skew space and distance. Small towns are a few people in big spaces, long roads to anywhere, silence after dark. But cities -- they cram so much into the space they occupy, and I can never solve the conundrum of whether it's the sprawl or the compression that creates the impression of enormity. All I know is that whatever it is, it makes me feel lost. Cities are always moving, always humming. They're just too big to hold on to.

But now I've learned to expect that. Now I remember that cities are vibrant; that there are always places to go and people to meet and hidden crannies to discover. That the sea of lights at night is beautiful, and that there's something peaceful about drifting to sleep and coming awake to the thrum of cities going about their business. It makes the quiet here just a little oppressive and a little lonelier than it was. It makes me crave the tumult and pine a bit for adventure. And it makes me want something I never wanted before: to be part of it. To get lost.

But that seriously didn't stop me from wanting to punch obnoxious people at an otherwise exquisite Death Cab for Cutie show on Friday night.

Song: U2, The Unforgettable Fire

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