The Far Side
How far is too far to drive in a city the size of Pittsburg?
Rebecca Bauman
Issue date: 10/29/09 Section: Opinion
I'm sympathetic to those who get tired of me comparing Pittsburg to every other city in which I've lived. "Well, in NEW YORK, there are restaurants." "Well, in SARASOTA, there are beaches." "Well, in AMARILLO there are Klan rallies."
But the comparison that those who brave my soapbox tend to hear most is drawn between life in Pittsburg and life in what I consider my hometown: St. Louis, Mo.
"In ST. LOUIS, we had SCUBA lessons for PE credit." "In ST. LOUIS, school lunches were all organic and vegetarian." "In ST. LOUIS, no one's kids ever screamed in the Wal-Mart. In fact, the Wal-Mart was banished to a rocky patch of ground just on the other side of the Mississippi and people only traveled there to eat at the McDonald's."
No doubt, I have been spoiled by city life. And it's taken me years to get used to this relatively small town.
Still, there's one thing I just cannot get over:
The legend of "the other side of town," its near-mythical appearance in our minds, as evidenced by a phrase I hear almost daily: "Naw, naw. I don't want to go all the way to the other side of the town." This is often followed by: "I'm too tired for that." Or, "I just want to stay close by tonight." Or, "I'm not up for that kind of road trip."
It's an idea I've never gotten used to. Having grown up in larger cities, I came to understand "the other side of town" as a point that could well be an hour and 45 minutes away, might well force you to cross into the eastern half of the United States. These cities were connected, one corner to another, by featureless, winding highways and exits that led to who-knows-where. Someone might live in the same county as you, but that never guaranteed you had any idea of the landscape that sat out beyond her back yard.
And so here I am in Pittsburg - spoiled, elitist brat - wondering how it could be that a five- to six-minute car ride from one end of town to the other could constitute an odyssey, a great trek. It's a distance of about five miles, give or take a side street.
But the comparison that those who brave my soapbox tend to hear most is drawn between life in Pittsburg and life in what I consider my hometown: St. Louis, Mo.
"In ST. LOUIS, we had SCUBA lessons for PE credit." "In ST. LOUIS, school lunches were all organic and vegetarian." "In ST. LOUIS, no one's kids ever screamed in the Wal-Mart. In fact, the Wal-Mart was banished to a rocky patch of ground just on the other side of the Mississippi and people only traveled there to eat at the McDonald's."
No doubt, I have been spoiled by city life. And it's taken me years to get used to this relatively small town.
Still, there's one thing I just cannot get over:
The legend of "the other side of town," its near-mythical appearance in our minds, as evidenced by a phrase I hear almost daily: "Naw, naw. I don't want to go all the way to the other side of the town." This is often followed by: "I'm too tired for that." Or, "I just want to stay close by tonight." Or, "I'm not up for that kind of road trip."
It's an idea I've never gotten used to. Having grown up in larger cities, I came to understand "the other side of town" as a point that could well be an hour and 45 minutes away, might well force you to cross into the eastern half of the United States. These cities were connected, one corner to another, by featureless, winding highways and exits that led to who-knows-where. Someone might live in the same county as you, but that never guaranteed you had any idea of the landscape that sat out beyond her back yard.
And so here I am in Pittsburg - spoiled, elitist brat - wondering how it could be that a five- to six-minute car ride from one end of town to the other could constitute an odyssey, a great trek. It's a distance of about five miles, give or take a side street.
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