Place #3: The Ravine Trail Suddenly Becomes Inaccessible. 1:32 PM. Hazy.

I couldn't make it to Frick Park this week. I wanted to. Really, I needed to. I have a good reason why I didn’t.

Last week, I was in a car accident. It happened so fast that by the time I realized what had happened it was already over. Two older ladies, out late at night, made an illegal turn and had I not turned a little to my right, it would’ve been a head-on collision. I had my bell rung and my car was totaled beyond repair. Luckily, the medic checked me and found no sign of a concussion.

I was on my way to Greenpoint and Williamsburg in Brooklyn to visit friends, a while outside of Pittsburgh, until a classmate was kind enough to get me and bring me back. Determined to leave Western Pennsylvania, I bought a next day Greyhound ticket and went ahead with my plans to leave the city. I’ve had a hard month and honestly, a car accident didn’t come as a surprise when only a week prior, my neighbor was cleaning his gun and had it fire through my kitchen wall when I was asleep. I felt like I just needed a break from the city, this city.

A few entries back, I touched on something about urban solitude. There’s something comforting, or rather was, to me about being in a giant city. Not unlike being in the woods, one is anonymous, overwhelmed with what they’re seeing, and despite everything teeming with life, one can feel really alone. I used to think that when this program was finished I’d head to a big city with a vibrant art scene such as Portland, San Francisco, or Brooklyn. I used to think it would be conducive to writing. I used to think that.

After I take the L Train over to Williamsburg, the temperature is already at 86 degrees. Concrete absorbs the heat, sustains it long after the sun goes down. There’s a haze over the East River. The streets are littered with Mexican beer bottles, cans of Four Loko, receipts, and broken glass. It’s garbage day. Open containers dot Berry/Nassau Avenue, giving the neighborhoods a stench not unlike the outside of a factory farm. This isn’t my first time in Williamsburg or Brooklyn, but this is the impression I find sticking with me.

I make it to Taylor’s apartment and she has some news for me: She’s moving to Vermont in one month. Taylor and I are both from Seattle and have kept in touch over such a long time. She’s been in New York since 2002 and has largely become an East Coaster. New York is now in her blood, but Washington was there first. You know where she’s from simply by her arborlust. Not too long ago, I would’ve been shocked that she would leave her cheap residence near the creative hub of the United States. Now taking off to Vermont almost makes sense.

Brooklyn is fun, but it doesn’t do the job that Frick Park has done for me the past couple of visits. Greenpoint is a Polish neighborhood and for a moment, I forget where I am when I don’t speak the language and have to point at items for my breakfast and dinner. The rats on the subway never cease to unnerve me. Bikers seem intent on running me over (everybody does lately, especially when I have the right of way). And it’s hot. Concrete hot. In our last night, thankfully, we spend it in McCurren Park, sitting on a baseball bench. There’s a hum of halogen, stadium lights, bottles and paper shards in the grass. This is as close to Frick Park as I’m going to get. Taylor and I start talking about Kanye West and I think of this line in Refuge that I’ve highlighted and underlined twice:

“Many men have forgotten what they are connected to,” my friend added. “Subjugation of women and nature may be a loss of intimacy within themselves.”

It started in my language first, the day I started saying I was from Washington instead of Seattle. I am connected to wood and water, the mountains and the steppe. Saltwater is in my veins, I long for coastlines, and my desire to be in them is overwhelming on the bus back to Pittsburgh. Washington is what I’m connected to, not the city. Can anyone really be connected to a city? The Seattle of my grandfather’s youth is gone, my mother’s too, and I’m rapidly losing the grip on my incarnation. But it’s not about the city, is it? When people ask about what where I’m from is like, the first thing I’ll mention is the view of Puget Sound from my mother’s home. Is it any wonder why in weeks prior, when I smelled the aromatic grass in Frick Park the first thing I compared it to was an orchard?

While I long for home, it is not easy to have that need filled. Frick Park has become an increasingly suitable alternative as I realize my connection is with the land, not a city. With my car about to be turned into a cube, my alternative is now inaccessible. Just outside of walking distance, I’ve arranged a ride to Ravine Trail in upcoming weeks. Until then, I’m left more anxious than I’d like to be.