Traveling is Always Leaving

You were nighttime and smoke and the sound of motorcycle engines and the boatman’s whistle. You were the orange of monks’ robes and the black-and-white of school uniforms. You were exhaust and perfume. You were stray dogs and child beggars and pushing crowds. You were unbelievably kind and gracious and laughed all the time and tried to hide your sadness. People hate you and they can’t leave you and maybe sometimes they even love you but they don’t forget you.

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This is definitely NOT about Rochester, NY.

What, you don’t remember the ferryman of the Genessee?

I don’t know if my feelings about Rochester are conflicted, but they are complicated.