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Odessa Dean @OdessaWaiting  June 24

I did a thing, y'all. Williamsburg, here I come! #adventure #NYC

#Williamsburg #blessed

Brooklyn, NY

I almost died on my way to work today.

Dodging between two enormous food trucks, each racing for the single open spot along Brooklyn's Metropolitan Avenue, I didn't notice an oncoming biker weaving around a jagged pothole roughly the size of my head-until he slammed into me, knocking me backward. As I stumbled into the path of the oncoming behemoths-focused intently on each other instead of the out-of-control, petite brunette in a neon green polo shirt, homemade floral skirt, and well-worn cowboy boots-my life flashed before my eyes.

And I have to admit it was as boring as a fence post.

I spent the first twenty-three years of my life in tiny Piney Island, Louisiana, just outside of Shreveport. Calling my hometown a one-horse town would vastly exaggerate the number of horses. There were no pine trees in Piney Island, nor was it an island-it was a chunk of dry land surrounded by more dry land, or at least as dry as it gets in the swampy bayou state I call home. According to the sign demarking Piney Island city limits, there were 2,014 residents, which, as far as I could tell, was at least a hundred thousand less than the population of my new neighborhood.

Ever since I could remember, I dreamed of seeing the world, but that was never in the cards. Not for me. That is, until my aunt, Melanie, asked me to pet-sit her cat for three months. Taking a much-needed break from the obligations of my marshy hometown, I packed a bag and boarded the next Greyhound bus to Williamsburg.

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York City, New York. It's quite a mouthful. It's also extraordinary. And fascinating. And terrifying, especially when I was inches away from becoming a grill ornament for the Lucky Stan's Stuffed Croissants truck, the trendy neighborhood's latest craze.

I bounced off the food truck's bumper, tripped into the same pothole that had started this whole mess, and landed face-first onto the hot sidewalk. As I tried to catch my breath, I couldn't help but notice that the passing pedestrians steered clear of me in a wide arc instead of offering a helping hand. I guess it could have been worse. They could have trampled me.

"No, no, I'm just ducky. Don't worry about me," I said, panting loudly as I got to my feet, dusting off my skirt. With its wide elastic waistband, long length, and flowy cut, it was one of my favorite skirt patterns-one I'd made in a variety of colors. "Thanks for the offer, though." The passersby continued to ignore me. Luckily, I wasn't too much worse for the wear. There was a mysterious new stain on my messenger bag that I absolutely did not want to know the origin of, but I was in one piece. More or less.

"Hey!" I glanced over my shoulder at the speaker. The Lucky Stan's Stuffed Croissants truck driver, the one who had bullied his way into the coveted spot, was hanging halfway out the window shouting at me.

I'd never seen food trucks in real life before leaving Louisiana, but they were a staple here in Brooklyn. In my hometown, I'd had the choice between eating free lunch at the Crawdad Shack on my break or running across the street to the Dairy Queen. Piney Island wasn't big enough to warrant a Sonic, much less a McDonald's. Now, I had seemingly unlimited choices from a dozen new mobile restaurants a day as enterprising young chefs converted trucks into rolling kitchens serving...