The City

I grew up in the outskirts of Vienna, Austria during the 1980s and 1990s. My earliest crystallized memories are set in the bustling city navigating the train system. The shrill sound of the metal wheels on the tracks and the clang of the locomotion terrified and excited me. But even more than the sounds of the train and the sights that flew by the windows, I was fascinated by the people. It seemed like the whole world rode the train—the punks, the gypsies, the businessmen, the old ladies, the children. I liked the feeling of being one of many people moving in unison. Without a conscious effort, I observed the others: their clothes, their mannerisms.

I didn’t know that my ability to notice and remember people was anything unusual until I got home from the first day of kindergarten and began to tell my mom the names of all 26 classmates and describe what each was wearing. My mother was surprised by how much I could remember. She made it a game we played as we walked home from school.

My observation was not limited to the people I met; I was also watching people far away. Though I was not allowed to turn on the TV, guests that came to the house were. I looked forward to my father’s colleagues coming for dinner because they would turn on the CNN evening news broadcast while my mother did the dishes. That was how I watched the Berlin wall fall and learned about the first Iraq war. The faces of people on the news looked very different from the faces on the train. This time I made myself remember them. As I went to sleep at night I recalled the images of people, some horrified, some in pain, and some almost dead.