#7: I lived on S. Clerk St.

October 15, 2007: Edinburgh, Scotland:

8.35 on a Monday night I look out my second story kitchen window onto the cold city street below. Over the past few weeks this has become a ritual of mine, both at night and in the morning. Although slightly voyeuristic, this practice of people watching can be quite entertaining and insightful. In general my vantage point is too high to be noticed by the oblivious public below, so usually if I’m spotted it’s by commuters on a bus’ upper level. Not too much they can do to stop me in that case though, so I generally just smile and wave. On this particular evening I sip from a fresh cup of blended tea, put my elbows on the sill, and simply watch on in amazement. My field of vision from left to right might not be more than fifty meters, yet every second activity ceaselessly persists. This is metro-reality in its purest form:

A red-haired couple crosses the street and laughs. The fellow jokingly wraps his plaid scarf around his lady’s neck and pulls her in closer for a kiss. Tiny cars whiz by them carrying the silhouettes of faceless, nameless people, weaving in and out of the two narrow lanes. I can occasionally see within these automobiles mementos dangling from the mirrors, hands shifting gears, and sometimes a dashboard glow. Monstrous Lothian busses chug along these dotted lines as well, pulling over just in front of this window at a popular transit stop below. Basically moving billboards, these double-deckers advertise anything from current movies and plays to liqueur bargains and athletic fanfare. I imagine these displays are less for aesthetics and more to pay for fuel. Their passengers seem to stretch necks taking in the town surrounding them, but perhaps they are merely glancing at their distorted likeness in the window. I also notice familiar white wires dangling from most of their ears, which disappear into their jackets and explain their bobbing heads.

Across the street a body bronzing shop is still in business, and a pale young man in a jump suit enters it with caution. After showing him to his tanning bed, the leathery attendant puts on her turtleneck, leaves the salon, and lights up a smoke. I can practically see her cancerous cells dividing from here, and I shiver at the thought. A pack of dressed up teenage girls pass through her smoke cloud briskly, pretending not to notice the heckling horde of drunken males trailing several steps behind. Further down the road, a cab is hailed by a man in an ebony trench coat and steers over with professional haste. The dark, suspicious character then slides into the back seat, leans forward to dictate a location, and they’re off. The taxi’s absence is soon displaced by a slightly less confident driver, whose car squeals in attempt to parallel park. A portly bald fellow with unusually long arms watches this display with amusement, as several futile efforts are made.

My attention diverts in this instant to a woman coasting downhill on her small yellow bicycle. She has covered not only herself but her entire vehicle with reflectors, and even her basket filled with groceries has been illuminated. The traffic she so obviously wishes to avoid dies down occasionally at this busy intersection, but is more or less constant throughout the day. Pedestrians and cyclists aware of this fact step and pedal with a distinguishable prudence, and look timidly both ways before advancing. A couple now crossing for example seems especially alert. They are dragging a pampered terrier by leash and a dozing infant by carriage. Another child they bear seems to be three months or less away from life on Earth, as the woman’s belly is enlarged.

Simultaneously a scruffy man with long hair, who I swear I’ve seen on this block before, holds a blue cooler in one hand and an empty beer bottle in the other. He is mumbling to himself cantankerously, showing further irritation after stumbling over a loose cobble in the sidewalk. Yellow flashing lights distract me from the drunkard, as they halt just before me. I realize now that this siren is attached to the roof of a garbage truck, which has only paused for a moment to collect a small curbside load of rubbish. Just like the many busses that pass through here, the city vehicle has come and gone efficiently within seconds. After the disposal truck has moved on, a flock of pigeons gather around the freshly vacant trash cans to peck around for abandoned crumbs. They disperse briefly from the filth as a disgruntled bum joins them in the desperate search for gold, but rejoin him in the hunt after nervously fluttering about.

Meanwhile, several students with book bag scoliosis slink ponderously down the sidewalk. They carry the burden of knowledge on their backs, and I assume they are returning home from the library. The amount of styling gel they have applied to their scalps astonishes me, and I contemplate its purpose without solution. As they walk by, exaggerated shadows of their spiky dos are cast upon the wall of an Indian takeaway place to their left. The restaurant has received minimal customers tonight I note, but perhaps it is closed or another nearby spot is favored. I cannot quite tell. The gel kings smoothly realign their step into a single file as they slip greasily past the same woman from the tanning salon. Back outside for another quick puff break, she is this time joined by an additional orangey figure. The two colleagues huddle close together like penguins to share a spark, exhale concurrently, then proceed to talk something over.

Above the salon there are two granite stories of spacious-looking apartments. Through one large window in particular I notice an ostentatious chandelier and broad leaves that extend from a successful indoor plant. For an instant a figure moves about in the room, but then the lights dim and the body disappears. Disappointed to have not witnessed any spontaneous acts of nudity or crime, I again return my gaze to the street level. Finishing my mug’s last sugary mouthful of tea, I take one final glance up and down the avenue: more cyclists, more cell phones, more bags, books, babies, and bronzers – more cars, more busses, more crazies, birds, and couples. My last image before drawing the curtain is of two men passing each other walking opposite directions. One hides his face with a hoody, and the other wears a pink sweater with pride. Their paths cross in the night without the faintest awareness of each other, and without the faintness awareness of me.