I was driving home late Saturday night, and noticed a police car parked on the corner of Eagle and Park streets, about a block from my Albany apartment.

“Why are the cops here?” I briefly wondered, while looking for a parking space and hoping I wouldn't get pulled over again because of my missing front license plate. Then I went home and forgot all about it.

But the police car was still sitting there the next morning. “Huh,” I thought to myself, as I headed down Eagle Street in search of my vehicle. “That’s kind of strange.” I got in my car and drove away, but when I returned home, eight hours later, there it was again, the police car. As I walked past it, I noticed yellow crime tape stretched between two stoops on my left, and suddenly understood that the round-the-clock police presence had a purpose beyond making people with missing front license plates nervous.

When I got home, I checked my e-mail. There was a message from my neighborhood association, informing me about a special meeting to discuss “the recent violence in our neighborhood.” In addition to the fatal stabbing on Grand Street a few weeks earlier, a man had been attacked and knifed on Philip Street, and another man had been found dead in a Grand Street apartment. Ah. So that explained the police car, and the crime tape.

WEIRD BUT INTERESTING

When my good friend Matt called, I said, “Everything’s fine, except for the murders around the corner, and the stabbing down the street.”

“That’s not good,” Matt said.

“I know, but I don’t really feel all that concerned,” I said. “The violence doesn’t really have anything to do with me.”

“Isn’t urban living weird?” Matt said.

Well, yes, it is weird. Or so it seems to me, because I grew up in a small town. If one of my neighbors had been murdered back then, it would have been a real cause for alarm.

But I’ve lived in cities long enough to know that they are not crime-free, and that city dwellers need to exercise a certain amount of caution. Which is why I’m comfortable walking down to the corner store during the day, but not at night. Or why I like to leave my apartment light on when I go out in the evening. I don’t want to be careless, but I don’t want to panic over every little thing, either.

I like my neighborhood. For the most part, it’s quiet. And it’s interesting — lots of nice old brownstones, and pocket parks and gardens and easy access to Empire State Plaza and the Corning Preserve.

But the more I thought about it, the more the murders and stabbings bothered me. Not in an “OK, I’m moving to Latham” sort of way. More in a “Hmmm. Is this neighborhood as safe as I thought it was?
And if it isn’t, what does that mean?” sort of way.

When I was looking for my first apartment, in Birmingham, Ala., my great-aunt brought me to look at several suburban apartment complexes — the kind that had gyms and laundry facilities on site, as well as gates that required pass codes to get past. They were perfectly nice, but I would have gone crazy if I tried to live in any of them, and I began searching for an apartment in the city. Eventually I found myself in an apartment in an old brick building with nice hardwood floors in Birmingham’s Southside, a neighborhood in close proximity to parks, bars and restaurants.

“Is it safe here?” I asked the current tenant.

YOU NEVER KNOW

Her answer was nuanced. For the most part, it was safe, though a couple years ago a crime wave swept through the area, and a number of residents were victims of robberies, muggings and other types of crimes. There was a lot of concern, but eventually the crime migrated to another part of town, and things died down. “That’s why they call it a wave,” she told me. “Because of the way it moves along.”

I liked the apartment, and decided to take it. I never had any problems there, but I was robbed at gunpoint at a bar I liked to frequent a few blocks away. “You need to be careful,” my dad told me. “I am careful,” I said. And I was.

But being careful is no guarantee that nothing bad will ever happen to you. Unless you become a hermit, and even then, something bad could still happen to you. Moving out of the city would have felt like giving up, acquiescing. I never considered it, but I know from experience how unnerving violence can be, especially random violence.

When groups of teenagers were roaming around my old neighborhood a few years ago and throwing rocks at pedestrians, I found it pretty disturbing, especially after a rock-throwing incident that occurred as I walked through Washington Park with a woman who was carrying a baby. Bad luck, or a sign that I should pack my bags and move elsewhere? I stayed, and eventually the rock throwing stopped.

Then there was the morning I opened the door to my foyer, and nearly stepped on a sleeping man.

“Excuse me,” I said. “But you’re going to have to leave.” “Ma’am!” the man shouted. “Please just let me rest! I’m not bothering you!” “No, I’m sorry,” I said. “If you don’t leave, I’m going to have to call the police.” “Ma’am, I cannot walk!” the man yelled. “Just leave me alone!” He rolled over and shut his eyes. I felt like I’d been more than fair, and I went inside and called the cops.

Later, I thought to myself: “Hmmm. Do I really want to live in a building where homeless drunks pass out in the foyer?” On the other hand, it had only happened once. There was no need to freak out.
Unless it became a regular thing. Maybe then I would freak out.

In the end, it was a rent increase that drove me from that apartment, not rock-throwing teenagers or sleeping drunks or even the fatal shooting of Albany resident David Scaringe a block from my building. I still live in the city, but in a different neighborhood.

Will I always live in a city? I have no idea. But the constant evaluation of one’s surroundings is just part of life in a city, I think. Sometimes the crime is a little too close for comfort. Most of the time, it’s not.

The day of the murder on Eagle Street was a really nice day. It was windy, but warm, and I went for a long walk. The first of about 20 trick-or-treaters arrived around 4:30. I spent much of the day reading and writing, and then I went out to listen to a show at Valentine’s. I had no idea that something terrible had happened. But eventually, of course, I found out.

Foss Forward makes a weekly appearance in print, in The Gazette’s Saturday Lifestyles section. You can email Sara at sfoss@dailygazette.net.