Despite my carefully sheltered upbringing, I am a metropolitan girl at heart. I loathe familiarity and conformity and seek a place in which I can be myself, but anonymously. I want somewhere that will provide me with an adequate source of income (legally) from nine to five and an opportunity to forget myself from dusk to dawn. I strive to live my life as privately and forgetably and with as many distractions as possible. This is my utopia; this is not Seattle.

How I had myself convinced that this was the place is beyond me. Perhaps it was the opportunity: I needed somewhere to live that wasn�t Anytown, Anywhere, and my best friend needed a roommate. I dropped out of college after one drama-ridden year, packed my Tercel to capacity, and drove off into the sunset. By the time the sun rose, I found myself in a cubicle of a room with Joanna spouting useful tidbits of information: �Bathroom�s there, coffee�s there, bus schedule in here, are you going to find a job today?�

In theory, I was. My somehow still present but ever-dimming optimism had me imaging I would walk into a chic but amicable caf�, offer my services as a master of everything, and be hired on the spot. This is how it works in Anytown, Anywhere; This Town, Here, had a different idea.

Randomly asking for employment got me nothing but a few cheeky smirks (haha, look at the little surburbanite, she thinks she can just waltz right in here and be one of us) and a lot of imaginary (wc) doors slammed in my face. My employment fantasy destroyed but my hope still glimmering, I scoured the classifieds of every available newspaper. Countless applications, faxes of my scant resume, and phone calls produced nothing but me watching and rewatching movies with people who have it worse than I do but still manage it make it work in the end. Fuck you, John Hughes. Every tinkling of the phone found me jumping up, a-heming, and answering with a professional �Hello?� but left me depressed as another of Joanna�s boy toys tried desperately to get ahold of her. Despite the fact that I had been here for three weeks and had yet to make a friend, save for a few homeless fellows bumming a cigarette, I was not disheartened in that department. Friends and lovers could come later; I needed money.

One of the five nights we were there, we had free time until 9pm. I saw a growing gathering of campers on the port and wandered over to see what all the fuss was about. My curiousity was rewarded as I watched a chase occur between a seal and a flying fish � survival of the fittest at its most entertaining, though I wouldn�t learn Darwin until a few years later. As the fish skimmed across the water, invoking a series of�Oooohs,� the seal chased after it in a similar manner, resulting in the inevitable �Aaaahs.� It seemed as thought the fish was winning, but we were hustled into our cabins before I could witness what I had hoped would turn into a bloody victory for the seal (I was an avid Shark Week fan).

I always think of this when someone tells me that there are plenty of fish in the sea. Sure there are, but how often do you come across one that even remotely fits your description of the Ideal Fish? How often is it that that fish pops up right in front of your, begging for your attention? And even if you�re chasing after a less-than-ideal fish, which you probably are, statistically-speaking, why go for something better when this one will satisfy your most basic of needs? And isn�t the fun in the chase anyway?