There is something peculiar about a city where the Center – there is a Basilica and a Washington Monument there – and the Harbor are the only places one can walk. What is peculiar is not the crime; crime has existed in all ages. It is the limitation of motion caused by the crime.
One can only walk North and South, to the Water or to the Center. East and West aren’t really places as much as traps: there’s nothing one would want to see there, and there is no hospitality extended to one.
The curious thing about the brutality of our age is how limited it is, and how destructive it is of those who are brutal. They’re animals in self-imposed cages, staring from the outside in, sometimes not even doing that much. It would have been nice to meet some people and make new friends – in any other city I go, I attempt that. But, properly speaking, I was in a place that was as far as possible removed from being a city.