Katie Doyle, Girl About Town

Tuesday, Oct. 24, 2006 - 12:32 p.m.

As I was coming back up the stairs from tossing my recyclables out just now, the lights went out. (they're on a timer that gives you almost enough time to get up to the top floor and open your door) My first thought was, "Oh, great," as I remembered stumbling up them the last time that happened. Then I realized it wasn't a big deal. I've been here long enough that they're my stairs, now. I know the degree of curve in the spiral and where to put my feet to avoid the ripple of uneveness in the old wood. I know where the center of the tread is and how high the rise and which stairs slant down the stairs and which ones tip up. I know how to negotiate by the windows when I'm carrying my grocery caddy so that I don't bang into them when they're ajar to let in the air. I know where the banister is, how high, how far away. I know how fast I can take them down before I'm in danger of losing my balance and tumbling down them to break my neck, and I know when I'm on the last flight going up without having to count landings. And I know all of it without paying the slightest bit of attention. Because they're my stairs.

My little room and neighborhood have become my home and world. I don't have to pay attention to where I am on the block to know how much further it is to the laundromat. I see many of the same people in the laundromat and my building, and we smile and say bonjour or bonsoir. The guy who runs the Punjab Palace knows my order and that I love the orange and rose cordial and don't take rice with my to-go order. The red-haired middle-aged lady at the supermarket always smiles and speaks a mix of french and english to me and knows to speak slowly and explain if anything different happens. The girl in the bakery there knows my order of deux sables et une baguette, and she always gives me a huge grin and says bonsoir and jokes around with me. She remembers to give me a receipt and says bon soiree and see me tomorrow at the end of every transaction. This has become my home, and it happened without my even knowing or being aware of it.

I realized all that moving up the stairs in the dark, the smooth wood of the railing under my hand, putting my feet where they belong without thinking about where that might be. Here and there, windows were lit across the courtyard, and I could see through lace curtains into kitchens with pans hanging on the ceramic tiled walls under little wooden shelves holding sugar and flour and tins of coffee, and past parted drapes into rooms where people were sitting having dinner at dark wood tables with green runners and brightly painted walls bathed in golden light, and I realized how much I really don't want to leave. That it will be good to get back to my life, to taking care of the things that have been sitting on hold, that I finally feel motivated to tackle and want to stay on top of so that I can finally make my life work, but that a huge part of myself has worked its way into this place and this life, settling into it like it would always be here, like this was the permanent thing, and the life I had was the temporary, and somehow I became a part of this place as it became a part of me, and I do not want to leave it.

And also, the light above the door is burned out, and I have absolutely no idea how to replace it.

Peace out,
Katie

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