City-me?

The first week since my move from Society Hill to Rittenhouse was an adjustment. It even started to make me wonder if, after almost a year in the city, I may be losing some of my midwestern manners.

My first weekday morning picking up the train at Suburban Station, rather than my usual Market East Station, I arrived with plenty of time. I took a seat to relax for a moment and enjoy my orange juice. My eyes were fixed on my magazine, but I sensed a man walking timidly towards me.

"Miss? Excuse me, Miss?" I heard him say.

Now, a whole lot of panhandling goes on at Market East. I don't make a habit of carrying cash or change, so I generally turn the people down, never without at least a small twinge of guilt in my gut. I'm not proud to say it, but the more time passes, the more I feel myself becoming slightly desensitized.

Which is why, I suppose, the words "I don't have any money" spilled from my mouth before my eyes had even met his.

As soon as I said it, my heart sank. One full look at the man, tall and burly, and the small group of friends that stood behind him--and I lowered my head back down in shame. Before I could muster the courage to apologize for my hasty, heartless assumption or even try to explain myself, the men retreated.

"Money?" He said to his friends as they walked away. "Man, people are sick."

Then, the following morning on the train to work, a guy who looked about my age in a bright green polo shirt took the seat next to me. Like I'd been doing for the most of the week as I fought my way through a cold, I coughed a rattling cough and wiped my nose with a tissue.

"Not feeling well this morning, are you?" He said with a smirk.

I was half surprised, half embarrassed. No one likes being the sick person on train. I was pretty irked he felt the need to draw attention to it. "No, I'm not."

"You're not gonna get me sick too, are you?" That smirk again.

"I'm gonna try not to," I said with a sniff as I shoved a my soiled tissue into my pocket.

I knew I didn't sound too psyched to talk about the nasty germiness I was spreading around, but I didn't realize I was so standoffish that he felt the need to move a few rows back at the next station stop.

I've always thought I was well-mannered, thanks almost completely to my impeccably polite mother. I refuse to give up the old art of the thank you note and I'm proud of my promptness and perpetual smile. But I'm learning that even occasional apathy can come off harsher than you may intend.

And the more I think of it, lately, I do sometimes find it more odd than endearing when a stranger smiles or holds the door for me. On one hand, I'd like to say it's not all my fault--that the harsh and unforgiving city life is simply taking its necessary toll on me. But deep down I know that real manners apply always--not just when it's easy or when your reputation's on the line.

As it often happens, a passage from a book I'm reading seems to speak some sense to this situation:

"There was a certain satisfaction in bitterness. I courted it. It was standing outside, I invited it in. I scowled at the world. And the world scowled back. We were locked in a stare of mutual disgust...One day I woke up and said to myself: It's not too late. The first days were strange. I had to practice smiling in front of the mirror. But it came back to me. It was as if a weight had been lifted. I let go, and something let go of me." (From 'The History of Love' by Nicole Kruass)