Parked in my parents' driveway is the gray 1988 Honda Accord that allowed me to drive 10,600 miles around the United States, even though, upon departure, it already had 222,000 miles of experience. It asked to be put in the shop only three times on that trip, which seemed like a fair trade, especially since that meant I got to learn about welding from a strange round-eyed man in New Mexico.

The car also tried to absorb two deer like a catcher's mitt (both bounced off, but only one ran away), making it look like it had gotten punched in the eye. (The 1988 Honda Accord, you may recall, had 'futuristic' pop-up headlights that refused to wink or function when dented.)

I love that the car has a few pings (which I don't recall being responsible for—conveniently, I never remember that sort of thing), because it means that I can drive through any neighborhood, poor or almost poor, guilt-free. I like that the fuzzy seats have a smattering of comfort stains, assuring riders that it's really not a problem if they spill a little coffee here and there. I also think it's kind of nice that I have to softly hit the driver's side window with my fist if I want it to close all the way, because it makes me feel as if my car and I have a secret language.

I'm happy that it's got four doors instead of two, that it gets good gas mileage, that it's a stick shift, and that driving it is as pleasant and easy as taking a nap. I'm fond of the extras I've bought for it: the steering wheel cover decorated with yellow and red flames, the 5-disc CD changer, and the new engine, which was transplanted at 255,000. I even like the way the door sounds when it's closed, and how the handle slightly resists when lifted. I know that a can of soda fits perfectly between the driver's seat and the emergency brake. I also learned, early on, exactly how far below the red bar that the needle can go before I run out of gas.

Honestly, if I had an infinite amount of money to buy any car I wanted, I would buy my eyesore of a car without having to think about it. I don't know if that's because I'm practical (okay it's not because I'm practical), because I'm stupidly sentimental, or because I don't like status symbols, but in any case, it's the car I want, despite that it now has 289,000 miles on it and its fifth gear has completely dissolved.

My parents have been wanting to sell my car ever since I moved to New York two-and-a-half years ago, reasoning that it wasn't doing anyone any good sitting in their driveway. I countered their reasoning by suggesting that it would be essential to have a car on hand if I ever moved away from New York. Of course, the problem with my argument is that I have no plans to leave New York, and the car is steadily creeping deeper into decay (and therefore decreasing in value). (Which is another problem: no one seems to think the car is as valuable as I do.)

I've conceded. My clever parents, who are aware how much the car means to me, offered possibly the only suggestion that would make me feel okay about letting it go. They suggested that I use the money I make from the sale to buy a Nikon D70, a digital SLR camera. "That's a good idea," I promptly admitted. (It's embarrassing how easily my allegiance to my beautiful car collapsed. I'm sorry, car.)

Last Tuesday, a nice Hasidic man named Paul who happens to read my site (Hi Paul!) sold me the D70 at a very good price, making the choice seem that much more logical. The camera is fancy and complex and exactly what I've been wanting (needing, even) for the last several months, though it is noticeably smaller than my Accord and has a very different skill set.

I keep making the mistake of thinking my decision was between a camera and a car, but really it has a lot more to do with New York. In any case, I'm sad and happy.

My foray into classy women's footwear went okay, except for one instance when I was walking backward and one of my dainty/girly shoes fell off (while trying to photograph people who were walking toward me, which rarely works out very well). However, despite my careful preparation and honest effort to blend in as someone who knows how to dress at weddings, I didn't score the full 100 points. (78, maybe?)

When I left the hotel, my hair was still damp, I'd neglected to even out my fingernails, I'd attached my dress to my bra with safety pins in order to hold it up at a respectable height, and I completely forgot to bring a handbag to carry in place of my bulky messenger bag, so instead I dragged my things around in a black nylon sack. The rest was perfect, though, I swear.

On a corner somewhere between Miami and the Everglades is an open-air fruit stand that's been there for 40 years. It's surrounded by fields of scattered tractors, and workers with wide-brimmed hats. The words "Robert Is Here" are written in white paint directly on the brown shingles that cover the sloped roof, in letters that are about ten feet tall.

Out of curiosity we stopped to check it out yesterday, certainly not unlike every other tourist who drives by. But then, the five of us were tempted by just about every detour we came across: an alligator farm, a billboard that bragged "Monkey Jungle," and even by a sign that said "Snake Bight," which belonged to a trail that disappeared into the woods along the highway.

I thought Robert Is Here was something of an obnoxious tourist trap á la South of the Border when we originally drove past it, on our way to the Everglades. But when we pulled into Robert's dusty parking lot on our way back, we discovered that, rather than kitsch, the place was full of bright and firm produce that begged to be purchased, however impractical it was for us to buy it at that moment.

Immediately after we arrived, a middle-aged married couple walked up to me and suggested that I hold their cockatoos. They'd noticed my interest in the birds when I got out my camera, and they delivered the birds right to me, as if handing me something as mundane as a flier. "Here, take our birds. And we'll take a photo of you!" I nodded and inaudibly told them I loved them for that. The birds' talons wrapped around my wrists like fancy bracelets, and one of them bounced up and down and shrieked in what I hoped was delight. I responded by telling it every form of "hello" that I could think of.

The friendly couple, who described their birds as "family," also tried (failed) to convince me that cockatoos "have exactly the same dietary needs as humans." They mentioned that they regularly bring their cockatoos to Robert's, simply because they enjoy sharing their birds with customers, whom they then educate. "Some people think all birds are loud," the man told me. "I'm here to tell them different."

I thanked the couple repeatedly and peeled myself away, moving onto the rest of the store, which was busy and festive. There were two Model T's parked near the entrance, as well as an old man with a guitar who serenaded the people standing in line for key lime milkshakes; he was strumming Piano Man when we arrived. In the back, there was a pen full of goats, emus, and donkeys that let you pet them, and sniffed you through the chain-linked fence. In the center of the store, behind the cash register, there was Robert himself, who'd established his business when he was only 7, picking up stranded fruit from the nearby fields and putting a price on it.

The place was lively and charming and totally without pretense. When we asked for the bathrooms, Robert warned us that they weren't great (they were outhouses), and that no one cleans them on Sundays, so we might want to watch out.

After Robert's, we somewhat aimlessly headed in the direction of Key West, not ever deciding how deep into the Keys we would actually travel, but just going. At one point Todd and I (wisely!) agreed to climb out of the car to assess the cause of the slow-moving traffic. Moments after we crossed the road, the congestion subsided, and we found ourselves running down the highway to catch up with our car, with Todd yelling, "That was a great idea!" the whole way there.

The sun set behind the water as we crossed the seven-mile bridge, and it was newly dark by the time we got to the Key West bar where Hemingway was rumored to enjoy a little cockfighting. It was 3 a.m. when we drowsily pulled up to the hotel back in Coral Gables. Tanner, who graciously drove the whole way, dropped us all off, and we stumbled to our rooms, carrying bags of Robert's pineapples and salsa.

I've only been to a town meeting once before, when I was living in Raleigh. The gathering was quiet and subdued, not at all like the heated town meeting in Footloose (which was a little disappointing, admittedly). It was pretty fascinating, though, to witness decisions being realized, and to see concerned citizens assembling for a cause, rather than simply airing their grievances during commercial breaks.

The meeting was small enough that it made you feel as if you mattered as a member of the community, and not only that, but that you could actually make an impact. It was enough to make me feel like an optimist for a whole thirty minutes.

Last night I went to my second community meeting, this time in Manhattan; it was (surprisingly) about the same size as the Raleigh assembly. I'm terrible at this, but if I had to guess, there were fifty people present, the majority of whom were cyclists, and a few from the disabled community. They were there—we were there—to discuss the bumps on the Williamsburg Bridge, the ones that, a year-and-a-half ago, flung me from my bike and caused my bones to snap like a Kit-Kat.

The meeting was held in the basement of a building, in a room with cinder block walls and fluorescent lighting. Folding chairs and tables, just like the fellowship hall of a country church, and no microphones anywhere. I had to strain to hear the discussion (oddly, it made me squint), especially during the beginning, when an obnoxious group of talkers were echoing in the hallway. (A few people turned to glare at them, but no one said anything.)

Naturally, the lady from the Department of Transportation was the sole defender of the bumps. I might've even felt a little sorry for her, being so outnumbered, if she showed even a hint of embarrassment about the DOT's position. Instead, she said her scripted lines without a trace of emotion, and nonchalantly sipped her bottle of water while people directed passion and logic her way. She annoyed me, certainly because I was personally affected by the bumps on the bridge, but also because she tried to write bike riders off as careless, and by extension, deserving. (I know I don't fit her profile, and I couldn't have been the only one.)

One man in a wheelchair offered to let the DOT lady borrow his chair and go for a ride over the bumps herself. In fact, he insisted on it. "We have a date on Friday!" he called across the room.

Due to other plans, I had to leave before the meeting ended, or before I could contribute to the discussion. (Normally I would avoid doing such a thing, but I felt compelled enough in this case to at least consider it.) But I was told the meeting had a good finish, that the bumps will likely be replaced with something more bike-friendly, and that it helped that the people who actually use the bridge were in attendance, even if not all of them spoke. The whole event, from our distorted perspective in an East Village basement, made Manhattan seem abnormally (refreshingly) small and malleable.

Let's say there was a movie that you saw and liked, and that you wouldn't necessarily think to be critical of it because it was entertaining and aesthetically pleasing. But then everyone you know (and everyone you don't know) kept talking about how incredible and amazing it was, and how it left them breathless! Newspapers and weblogs and subway riders can't get enough of it! It has changed the face of film forever! And all of this talk makes you wonder if you actually saw the same movie that everyone else did, or, worse, it makes you wonder if you are too shallow or too literal to see the beauty of it. All of the hype is confusing to you. Had there been less hype, however, you feel confident you would've found the movie pretty cool. (You also wonder why hype should affect your opinion at all.)

The most impressive feature of The Gates is that they're so prevalent—rows of orange, fluttering guillotines stretching into the distance, calling attention to the slope of the landscape, and to themselves. They look something like the wickets of a croquet game, but a version made for giants.

The best thing about them, I think, is their ability to summon thousands of people to a common spot at a common time. Kind of like a huge concert, except that the draw comes in the form of plastic and cloth (rather than chord-playing humans), and the fans wander around like Alice, gripping their cameras and pointing in every direction. (And saying things like, "Stunning!" and "Magnifique!")

I like it when I notice how many directions this city is moving at once. Usually I see it when I'm in one of the outer boroughs, where the overground trains streak through the sky like slow, clunky meteors.

I also see it when I'm on the subway, underground, and heading in the same way as a parallel train. For a few seconds, I'm able to casually study the passengers in the adjacent car; they read, talk, sleep, or stare, but none of them behave as if they were unnaturally moving sideways, at a high speed, beneath several feet of concrete and sewer pipes. Five seconds only, and we begin to break apart, heading to separate destinations. The engineering of the subway system baffles me.

In Penn Station, the people behave like trains. They travel in a web of directions but form deliberate paths and avoid colliding with each other. If you're not desensitized to it, as I'm not, it can be rather fascinating to watch, particularly when the vintage "destinations" board reveals which track a particular train is leaving from. The people hover beneath the board, slack-jawed, with their coats and bags dripping off their arms and shoulders. When the platform is announced, they turn into track stars, and race each other to the best seats. If it were children doing this, it might not seem so unreal, but these are people wearing expensive suits, and shoes that get professionally shined. All day these people preside over board meetings and make executive decisions, only to later essentially call "Shotgun!" to a pack of strangers.

I had two seats to myself on my way out to a town on Long Island, and practically a whole car on the way back. In between, I spent time at a high school, photographing the team's star basketball player to the din of referee whistles, excited parents, rubber sneakers dragging against the waxed floor, and the uniform chants of cheerleaders (offense. defense. Let's go!). I'd forgotten about that specific kind of energy that high schools have, in which kids flirt with each other by making asses of themselves (I mean that in the friendliest way possible) and get genuinely excited about eating pizza! together after the game.

The adults whom I spoke with were incredibly nice to me. They suggested that I store my stuff in the faculty room and they even let me use the faculty bathroom. I half-expected them to ask me for credentials or ID or something. The faculty bathroom? I'm on that side of the fence these days?

They invited me to eat cake with the team (I did), which was served in honor of the last home game of the season. We sat on the corners of tables in the fluorescent cafeteria and ate blue flowers made of sugar. The whole experience was kind of disorienting.

We stopped on the corner of Delancey and Orchard to watch a random collection of pedestrians try to capture a dog on the loose. "Stop that dog!" a man with a booming voice yelled up the block. Another man stood dumbly by as the animal pranced around his feet, the command not yet registering as one meant for him.

The dog was white and had curly ringlet fur, and its ears, which stood at attention on top of its head, looked exactly like the ears of a rabbit, but the fake kind, the kind that humans wear at costume parties. The creature was wired on adrenaline and ran in erratic shapes on the street, dodging hands that reached down to get it, and hopping wildly like a bucking bull. It looked more like a wind-up toy than a dog.

We were running late, but it was impossible not to watch the situation play out. In fact, everyone in the area seemed to be focused on the chase; the people who weren't running after the dog were bonded to the cement beneath their feet, staring. I was a little worried that the animal might foolishly dart into the middle of traffic on Delancey, which was streaming from the Williamsburg Bridge. I couldn't have been the only one. When a stout middle-aged woman finally scooped up the spastic dog in her arms, the street sighed collectively and, show over, began moving again.

He asked for a volunteer to sit in the spotlight on the dangerous side of a video camera, so that he could demonstrate the different effects lighting can have on a person's face. I am not an eager volunteer; I don't even like asking questions in class.

"Hey, blond girl!" A fellow student pointed at me. "Since you're already sitting near the camera, why don't you do it?" (Later he apologized for putting me on the spot, and acknowledged that, in that moment, he realized he probably became my instant enemy.)

Since being perceived as 'difficult' is slightly less appealing to me than being the center of attention in a room full of strangers, I reluctantly conceded, and moved my chair to the middle of the room. Someone killed the overhead lights and someone else shone the spotlight directly at me, blinding me just enough that I had to squint, but so that I could still see the faces of my peers crowding around the camera to study me in the LCD monitor.

I slouched and then sat up, looked to the side and then straight ahead, fidgeting indecisively. "Look at what the light does to this side of her face," the professor said. "Oooh, yeah," the class responded in discovery.

I sat in the chair long enough that I simply began to accept the situation, the way you accept your relationship with your gynecologist, with a sort of helpless resignation. Eventually, I kind of stopped caring altogether. In fact, when I was asked to operate the equipment, I nonchalantly agreed. I'd already been deconstructed underneath floodlights, so I figured it would be difficult to be embarrassed further.

Fortunately some measure of that acceptance carried over through today, when I read a 20-minute story of mine on stage. I was considerably less nervous than I was at last year's reading, and everything seemed to go okay: I read at a reasonable pace (albeit a little too quietly, I'm told), I didn't feel faint, people said they liked my story, and after it was over I didn't immediately feel inclined to hide or apologize or anything.

I should've left it at that, but instead I decided to play back a recording of my performance. I listened to 20 seconds of it before removing my headphones and realizing what a bad idea it had been to record myself. Although technology is often great at preserving memories, sometimes it's also pretty good at messing them up. Of course, listening to myself on tape is kind of like looking at myself in a distorted fun house mirror. I wish there were some way I could hear it as plainly as an outsider.