The Pagan City

Everyone, it seems, wants to move to the neighborhood of Graete: they call it charming, they call it chic. The high rents and lack of public transportation add to its appeal, apparently.

But denizens of the City, not the newcomers from the ‘burbs who suddenly feel the call of urban living think there is something inelegant about the place.

Perhaps its the flat tires on the new cars. Perhaps it is the sunflowers with missing petals. Perahps it is the proliferation of dented cans of marinated artichoke hearts in the grocery stores frequented by gourmets. Its as if the idea of the wheel never made it passed the local zoning board.

Everyone has been to Graete. Everyon has a friend or two who live (or have lived) there. Its thoroughfares and convenient parking are known to all. So why do we all keep coming back?

The smiles of the inhabitants never extend to the ends of their mouths or their eyes. Old friends always look delighted to see us, or did we arrive just in time to keep them from crying?

Graete is the neighborhood of violated expectations. Its other name is Regret. The only truly happy people in the whole neighborhood are the self-help authors who arrive at the Border’s to sign copies of their latest best-sellers. They get to go home to a different neighborhood.

We stay.