Dear Wigleaf,

I lived abroad a few years ago. People are quick to tell you their country is dangerous; their instinct is to worry about you. Now, maybe I don't inspire a lot of confidence, or maybe it's more acceptable to be anxious on behalf of a stranger than it is to be uncertain yourself in your own hometown. Any city can be scary, if you meet it on the wrong terms. That shouldn't dissuade you.

To mollify these people worried about me, I lived in the city center and when I took buses, I always got off well before they reached their terminal points on the city's outskirts. Which meant I never actually got to see the places whose names adorned the buses. Geant. Malvin. Palacio de la Luz. Over time, these names gradually transformed. They became dream places, beyond my or anyone else's reach.

Sometimes I'd see a bus driving around late at night, brightly lit, completely empty. And I'd get the idea that it was haunting the city, destined to search forever, futilely, for the place emblazoned on its forehead.

I'm back in the States now, but I see it here too. The notes of caution I give to visitors. The strange names on the buses in a city I claim to know. Andorra. Venango. Neshaminy. Maybe I'm a little scared to take anything to its full conclusion. Maybe I'd rather get out early and keep the option to walk the rest of the way.

Travis