A Special Place

         My special place is one of contrasts, of loud and quiet, hard and soft, old and new. Construction equipment and tall city buildings compete with the wind as it caresses the trees; painted metal rests beside the airy loam of flower beds. The whisper of elderly ladies complements the sweet laughter of young children at play. I suppose I am drawn to this place because I myself am a contrast, and like cries out to like.
         The park-like area around the fountain in the Iowa City pedestrian mall is the one place on earth where I know I can always be perfectly at my ease. From my usual bench, I am part of everything; the gray, weathered wood beneath me, the trees and soil around me, the water as it jets in archways from the ground. I am the man selling gyros, yet at the same time I am the chic lady in the black pants and stilettos, chattering on her cell phone. When I am there, it is as though by the powers of mere observation I can become the woman walking out of the Soap Opera, or the mother maintaining a seemingly casual but actually hawkish watch on her child. Sometimes, I can even be the child, going down the slide and screaming in delight, unaware of the agony I cause my mother every time I shriek.
         I can think of a number of reasons why the pedestrian mall – the ped mall, for short – is the place which continues to hold onto a section of my heart. The first time I remember actually stopping to consider the ped mall was during my early adolescence, a tumultuous time for myself and, presumably, for anyone who has ever experienced puberty. This initial visit took place in the company of some of the best young writers from Iowa; they and I were members of the creative writing class of the Blank Summer Institute, or BSI. As clear as though it were yesterday, I can recall the clouds in the sky, the swimsuited children frolicking in the fountain’s streams, the mothers gossiping to one another. I am still startled by the sun dancing in John’s golden curls and in Zach’s azure eyes, and by the leaf-cast shadows doing smooth rumbas over the surface of Amanda’s notebook paper. For me, this memory is one of my most peaceful, and each time I recollect it, I can almost smell the gyro stand, the earth, and the urban-yet-urbane aroma which defines Iowa City. To me, the ped mall is serenity, the eye of the hurricane which was and is my life. It is a place to relax, a place to do nothing but be, where your only worry is the possibility of splinters from the benches.
         My special place is contentment; my special place is security; my special place is peace. Everything I could want is right there, within reach. The worn yet strangely comfortable bench I favour lies within a ten-minute walk of cool, clear, drinkable water, my favourite (and perhaps the only) buffet of vegetarian Indian cuisine, museums of art and natural history, libraries, and the Old Capitol. Here and there are bars with live music every night, music spanning every combination of genres imaginable. This block is partitioned off for the jazz festival each summer. Across the street and up the way is the old brick church, and beyond that lay University of Iowa residence halls. A little further along and across the footbridge is Kinnick Stadium. Anywhere I could want to go, anything I might want to see or hear or buy, is, for all practical purposes, beside me in the ped mall.
         Yet the appeal of this place is more than mere satisfaction of wants. There is a spiritual purification which it possesses the ability to bestow on me, and, hopefully, on anyone else who cares to stop and be rinsed clean. I feel closer to God there than anywhere else I’ve ever been – and yes, this includes churches. It is the place where my head is clearest, where my soul is nearest to the surface of my being. The ped mall is where I can think, where I can feel, where I can exist. There, I am individual, yet I am connected to the entire population of the universe. I am unfettered. I am infinite.