Come What May

4. explore

CHAPTER FOUR

EXPLORE

—

• tuesday, march 9th •

Exploring San Diego by myself seemed like a good idea when I first thought of it, but now that I'm positively lost, I'm not so sure that it is.

Exasperatedly huffing, I squint my eyes at my phone in front of me, the Maps app opened up, but I still have no clue where I am.

All I know is that the sun is almost too bright, if that's even possible, and that I need water, my throat so parched that I can barely hum along to the piano that's playing in my right ear, the left one devoid of music because that side of my earphones has been broken for over three months now.

"Uh— excuse me," I stutter to someone who looks to be in their early twenties, much like me. They they look a lot more put-together than I do, though, like they're fully accustomed to San Diego. "Um... Sorry for bothering you, you don't have to answer if you don't want to, but do you know where—"

Before I can finish my sentence, before I can even read the words that are printed on my phone, the person just shrugs and walks away.

I should be surprised, but frankly, I can't find it in me to care. Probably because the people in New York are so much ruder, because while this person stopped to hear me out, the people in New York would have turned a blind eye, or worse, cursed me out for asking a question.

People always say that New York is made only for New Yorkers, and I can't agree more. It's built for the overworkers, the overachievers, the ones who will do everything in their power to climb up the social ladder, even if it means stepping on other people in the process. For the ones whose rent is too high for their salary, for the ones who care more about what brand their phone is rather than whether or not it's working right.

Not everyone from New York is bad. But the small portion of people whom I interact with— the people I bump into on the busy streets, the people I meet at shoots, the people I drink with at parties, the people I kiss at parties— they're sycophants.

And I'm almost a hundred percent sure that I'll find at least one person like that in San Diego. Maybe I already have. They're everywhere.

Still, I don't think I'll find someone like that right now, so I just ask another person I see for directions, the small wrinkles next to their eyes telling me that they're older than the previous person, maybe in their early forties.

"Hey, hey, sorry to disturb you," I start, the same way that I started the previous time. This time, however, I choose not to add the, 'you don't have to answer'. "Can you please tell me where this park is?"

The stranger laughs, a deep one, one that instantly tells me that they know I'm not from around here. And the pitiful look that they shoot me only further proves it.

"You from NYC?"

Almost immediately, I know that it's the accent that gave it away.

"Yeah," I divulge, something that I would never have done, not with a random stranger, but I do it anyway because they don't look like they want to kidnap me or take away my backpack. "And you're— clearly, you're from here. I think. I don't really know the different accents, sorry. I only know New York, Chicago, Texas, Alabama? Uh, Ohio, too." Shut up, oh my God. "Anyway. Anyway. Do you know where it is? The park?"