I grew up in a small town but have spent my adult years living in cities (because that is where the work is).
I enjoy living in cities. I currently live in an apartment in the middle of New Zealand’s capital city, and I love it. I love being able to walk most of the places I want or need to go—to work, the library, the supermarket, the shops, the theatres. There are inexpensive buses and trains if I’m going a little further afield. I love that there are so many things to do—shows, plays, exhibitions.
Okay, so the weather isn’t always great, but the apartment is cozy and I’ve yet to be drenched in rain.
It’s all very different from the small town I grew up in.
It was small enough that I knew most of the kids in my school by name. I knew many of their siblings and parents by sight. I didn’t necessarily know the names of the shop owners, but certainly recognised them. Walking down the main street and not seeing anyone I recognised was the exception. Here in the city, it’s the norm.
Maybe that’s why readers like me like small town stories, because they remind us of a different time, a simpler time, a time when we knew our neighbours and our friend’s neighbours. When we knew the town gossip, when reading the newspaper was about people we knew.
