A discarded plate sat to the side of her computer, oil smeared on its porcelain surface. She absentmindedly swiped at a crumb on her lips, dabbed her hand on a napkin, and resumed scrolling through the photos she’d taken in the past couple months: old, young, middle-aged people of various genders, race, political alignment—some in their homes, the streets, in cafes—any space they chose and felt that they could be intimate in. She paused at a photo of two women sitting side by side, loving gazes fixed on each other, made soft and unearthly by candlelight outside the frame.
“Hello ma’m, anything else for you? More coffee?” A voice chimed to her right.
After a beat, the woman at the table smiled and said with a indistinguishable lilt, ”No, thank you. But if I could have the check, that would be lovely.”
“Sure thing.”
Shay leaned back and snuggled into the red plastic of her booth. A large backpack sat across of her, poised upright as if another patron of the establishment, and her devices were scattered across the wooden tabletop--computer, digital camera, film camera, notebook, pens--along with a few smudged plates. Eggs and sausage sizzled somewhere she couldn’t see, and soft jazz drifted amongst the low murmurs of morning. This was one of her favorite places to be in this city in the week she'd been in the city; so many interesting people came to eat here, young and old alike.
Northampton was a lively city known for its counterculture, youth, and politically liberal leanings. Its personality announced itself the moment she arrived, having been invited to a concert by the same lesbian couple that had driven her here. She’d later interviewed them, delightfully surprised to find that they were the co-founders of an queer artist commune in the city.
Shay absentmindedly smoothed out the fabric of her longyi and briefly glanced up with a gentle “thank you” when the waitress dropped the tab. The traditional Burmese wrap she wore--adorned with an orange floral pattern with velvet blue lining--muted with the years, but retained a grace that her mother oft likened to “the spirit of our tiny, resilient country.”
Traveling had been easy on this side of the states. For the past couple months, she'd stayed with friends and family up and down the east coast, but the rest of America was a friend waiting to be made. She had never witnessed the deserts of Central US, the wild coasts and crags of California, the towering redwoods and graceful pines and grand mountains--this must have been how the first American pioneers felt, she mused...beyond their inhumane treatment of millions of Native Americans.
She moved to pack up her belongings and let her mind wander: she thought of the people that had welcomed her into their homes and lives, of the all-too-human suffering and happiness she was privy to, and of future friends that would inevitably humble her.
The west was calling, and it was time to go.
“Hello ma’m, anything else for you? More coffee?” A voice chimed to her right.
After a beat, the woman at the table smiled and said with a indistinguishable lilt, ”No, thank you. But if I could have the check, that would be lovely.”
“Sure thing.”
Shay leaned back and snuggled into the red plastic of her booth. A large backpack sat across of her, poised upright as if another patron of the establishment, and her devices were scattered across the wooden tabletop--computer, digital camera, film camera, notebook, pens--along with a few smudged plates. Eggs and sausage sizzled somewhere she couldn’t see, and soft jazz drifted amongst the low murmurs of morning. This was one of her favorite places to be in this city in the week she'd been in the city; so many interesting people came to eat here, young and old alike.
Northampton was a lively city known for its counterculture, youth, and politically liberal leanings. Its personality announced itself the moment she arrived, having been invited to a concert by the same lesbian couple that had driven her here. She’d later interviewed them, delightfully surprised to find that they were the co-founders of an queer artist commune in the city.
Shay absentmindedly smoothed out the fabric of her longyi and briefly glanced up with a gentle “thank you” when the waitress dropped the tab. The traditional Burmese wrap she wore--adorned with an orange floral pattern with velvet blue lining--muted with the years, but retained a grace that her mother oft likened to “the spirit of our tiny, resilient country.”
Traveling had been easy on this side of the states. For the past couple months, she'd stayed with friends and family up and down the east coast, but the rest of America was a friend waiting to be made. She had never witnessed the deserts of Central US, the wild coasts and crags of California, the towering redwoods and graceful pines and grand mountains--this must have been how the first American pioneers felt, she mused...beyond their inhumane treatment of millions of Native Americans.
She moved to pack up her belongings and let her mind wander: she thought of the people that had welcomed her into their homes and lives, of the all-too-human suffering and happiness she was privy to, and of future friends that would inevitably humble her.
The west was calling, and it was time to go.