Last night, homeward bound for the first time after dark, alone.

Not since high school (walking to volunteer at the Community Association for Riding for the Disabled through G. Ross Lord Park in the pitch black, amongst the shadows of trees haunting the empty road, right after that girl was raped there) have I felt so scared simply trying to get from point A to point B. Including all those times I stood at the side of Canadian highways, thumb erect, waiting for the next obliging driver to pull up…

By myself. On foot. Heading home. This should be a solitary, pensive, relaxing experience. Should be.

How silly that leaving the office late should be frightening endeavour. And yet, as soon as Patricia from administration dropped me off at Auditorio Metro Station, I was on guard. Purse clutched to my side, pace artificially quick, furtive glances about to assess my surroundings… When I felt my gaze soften, leaning towards the faces of underground strangers who might offer up a smile or nod, I straightened up, stiffened my body and mind against their inclination towards connection. I would look at nobody, hard.

“Hiding” up the crowded escalator (with no “stand right; walk left” option), pressed between two older women, I tried to remember which way to exit Mixcoac. “Salida” signs everywhere, but no way to tell where they lead. I took one, at random. Emerging on the west side, into the busy alleys of Taco and Hot Dog and Kola Loca (Crazy Glue) vendors, I mistook _____ (?) for Felix Cuevas and started walking south instead of east. Squeezing between the greasy snack stands and their proprietors, at times forced off the curb into the street (where cars practically aim for people), every passer-by (man) who looked my way was a potential attacker; every potential friend, a gamble not worth taking. The risk of a casual “Hola!” or “Sabes que hora es?” or “Donde es Insurgentes?” would be high, immediately identifying me, this light-skinned trying-not-to-look-lost little woman as a definite foreigner, as if I wasn't already sticking out enough. C’mon, stay grounded, I told myself.

By the time I got my bearings, heading at right angles away from the huge “Voila Quebec” billboard with a young girl’s luminescent face blighted by a blue “fleur-de-lis” black eye (I don’t quite get what the Quebec tourism board had in mind with this campaign), my heart was fluttering. I started to jog-walk down the sidewalk, taking refuge in the energy of fellow woman pedestrians. After a few blocks, though, the lights got dimmer, the people fewer, and Mr. Farca Luna’s advice more salient: should I find myself alone and lost, always head towards la luz & la gente, and call someone to get me. “Um, hi, I’m all the way across town from where you are, 10 minutes from my house, and feeling a little uneasy…” Yeah, right. Must keep trekking.


Despite my sensitivity to the issues surrounding corporate globalisation, the Liverpool Department Store was a welcomed landmark, symbolising my return to familiar territory. And it is begrudgingly that I must admit to the beacon-like appearance of the Wal-Mart sign, glowing bright yellow in the distance on this dark night. It allowed me to relax a little, knowing I was almost home.

There’s no good way to explain that gut instinct, the one insisting you look around every corner before forging on, telling you to avoid the limbs emerging from unlit doorways and to move fast. I can’t rationalize last night’s sense of urgency, which now seems totally baseless. True, there are hazards associated with life in this seething metropolis, informed by reality rather than paranoia, and this will remain a constant. I know that if my fear dissipates over the next several months, it will be at least partly due to the soothing lull of that proverbial false sense of security.

Yes, I probably would have gotten home without incident last night, no matter what I’d done. Even if I’d strolled along slowly, talking to strangers in broken Spanish and dangling my purse. But maybe I wouldn’t have. A part of me resents all the people who have inspired this fear in me, constantly imploring me to be careful and telling me, over and over, about all the dangerous aspects of this city. And yet I know that they are right, statistically, theoretically, and practially. I will keep trusting my intuition, even though I sometimes wish it would just shut up.

Anyways, I guess if there has to be a moral to this story it's that I made it home, safe and sound. I expect this experience will probably repeat itself a few dozen times. Je suppose que c'est la vida.