When you’re constantly surrounded by New York - the sights, the sounds, the palette, and the diversity - you don’t really realize how narrow your scope actually is. You’re taught to believe that because you’re in the most eclectic city in the world, you understand everything. You feel as though you’ve been exposed to everything and that nothing is new, and anything you need is within reach. Even though you know there are people outside of New York, it almost stops your breath to think that there are people who choose to live elsewhere, and choose to live in other ways. So simply, you don’t think about it. It’s in part because you know the way you’ve chosen to live and you can’t imagine why anyone would live anywhere, any way else, but it’s also because you’re constantly surrounded by so many people, it seems natural to believe that all inhabitants of the world converge onto one spot. Your spot.
And then you land in an island in Atlantic Canada, whose entire population is about double that of Park Slope. The palette is three colors: green, blue, and red, and in hues - blazing, brilliant, beautiful hues - you’ve never before seen. Walking isn’t a conceivable mode of transportation; it’s a recreational activity, and no one is in a rush. There are no such things as suburbs, and there’s a dairy farm in the same vista as the marker of the city center of the most populous area. Industry is defined by fishermen who dot the bays at four in the morning, and you don’t need a reservation for dinner. Most people are of similar race, similar descent, and share similar religious beliefs. The light at night is generated from stars. Stars.
And if you’re lucky, instead of being a New York snob, you stop. And you think, breathe. And you re-contextualize yourself, so that when you’re back in the hussle of your bubble life - the life that you swear isn’t a bubble - you have a little more perspective than you did yesterday.
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