There is a life to the city,

a vitality not found in Suburbia.

Uniqueness, sprinkled in among the chain coffee shops.

Food trucks with steam rising from them on cold days,

mouthwatering smells drifting heavy through the air,

enticing passers by with the promise of delicious lamb gyros.

There are no heavy smells in the streets of the suburbs,

except the smells of grease exuded by the dumpsters behind burger joints.

Everything else is sanitized,

bright, neat, packed conveniently into strip malls.

The city is real,

and the people are vibrant.

The ponytailed Japanese man whose family makes crepes,

the old owner of the steak shop on the corner,

They recognize you from previous visits.

Neither of you knows the other's name,

but you share a look of recognition.

There is no anonymity in the city.

There are only neighbors,

who go to the same eateries and delis,

listen to the same music in San Pedro Square.

They are a small, unknowing community

that shares something that the world,

with its coffee houses and burger joints,

can never have.