Out of Place

I step off the cool bus into the big apple. I take a deep breath to calm the anxiety that is encompassing my body. It is my 22nd birthday and I am a lonely traveler who has become apart of the hustle and bustle of New York City. I grab my medium-sized chocolate-colored suitcase from the driver who retrieves my luggage from underneath the bus. The driver was a kind short man who had a heavy Jamaican accent. I hand him and crumbled up 5 dollar bill from my purse. I make my way to Grand Central Station to wait for a friend. My anxiety begins to intensify as I wonder what people are thinking seeing me tug my suitcase around the city like a stranger. Luckily, I notice a couple other travelers struggling to maneuver their way around the concrete jungle. The mix of anxiety and heat equal a great mess of sweat as I scurry into Grand Central Station. It is much cooler than I anticipated and I am full of relief surrounded by fellow travelers. I decide to give myself the grand tour and too my surprise it was better than the movies portray it. No one notices me-- a tall slim 5’11 curly headed curl-- wander around the station in amazement. New York is the only place I feel normal, I am no longer a flower amongst blades of grass but a flower in a colorful bouquet.