"Remember," my father always says, "you're just a country mouse." Before any trip to Boston, New York, or certainly the trips abroad without my parents, he would remind that I was a country mouse. It was as if acknowledging that I had grown up jumping into hay in a barn, running through tall grass (before lyme disease even existed) would mean that I wouldn't jump out into a busy city street, get hit by a cab, or make conversation with bums on the street.
Even now, that I am here in the city, jumping out in front of cabs (they'll never stop for you anyway), he reminds me. Country Mouse.
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