Displaced

An odd sense of déjà vu creeps over me frequently these days. Surreal moments of complete displacement. For instance, I’ll be driving up Fresh Pond on my way home, and the reception on the car radio will go hazy. It’ll be dark--because it seems as if it’s always dark these days--and the road curves a bit. And for a moment, I’m sure that I’m on Market Street traveling from Fremont to Ballard, in that one curvy spot headed down to 3rd Ave. where the radio would also fritz out. It’s not that I’m reminded of Ballard. It’s that I think that I am in Ballard. So it’s a jolt when I look up and I think, “Hey, this isn’t Seattle,” but it takes a few moments for me to figure out where exactly I am. This happens frequently, like when I went to meet Kara for brunch in Cambridge, and I drove around and around for parking and I just kept muttering, “I hate going to Capitol Hill,” and was surprised when I realized I wasn’t in Capitol Hill. I’ve been there before, but I haven’t. Buildings will look similar in the dark, Storrow Drive will feel like Aurora.