I walk by this rusted camper van every day between my trips to Brazza (best gelato and espresso in town, made my two Italian brothers who were ex-ENRON employees) and Bikram yoga (90 minutes of stinky 104F “Lower Circle of Hell but you lose 3lbs of water while you’re in there” fun).
I walk by this rusted camper van, and bound merrily towards the new concrete roundabout nearby, cresting over the hump in the road and taking in one of the most beautiful urban vistas in the hemisphere. I am the suburban Fool.
I walk by this rusted camper van and towards my south-facing, 800sq-ft, hardwood floored apartment, on the top level of an old character building, near the local theatre and art museum, and minutes away from a strip of organic produce markets, old world bakeries, and chic sushi houses. I am the fortunate Son.
I walk by this rusted camper van…and I freeze when it starts to move. Shifting and squeaking. Wobbling and rocking. And then a tattered curtain pulls slowly aside. A shadow stares out through yellow glass at the tobacco-stained sun in the distance. It seems to bargain with the horizon. I am the aching Voyeur.
Sometimes, we are like jailors to ourselves. Wardens…who have lost all the keys.