“This is where the last owners had their vegetable garden,” he says as he squats and turns over the soil. I know he’s thinking about the herbs he’ll plant. I almost smile, but if he sees that, he’ll think I want to live here with “nitrogen rich soil” and solid brick foundations. I want to live in the city. I’ve had enough of this so called clean air tinged with the scent of manure. I want things made of concrete. Parking lots. Skyscrapers. Places where I have to remember to keep my head down so I don’t look like a tourist. Here my clothes can’t hide that I don’t fit. In my heels, I stay on the porch while he goes with the real estate agent to inspect the barn.