I usually feel inconspicuous in the city, but recently two things happened to disabuse me of this notion:

On the subway, I was sitting next to a woman who was writing furiously in a notebook. She would often glance up, and I suspected she was taking notes. So, as discreetly as possible, I took a peek at the notebook: "a woman with a green bowling bag sitting next to me." Oh my God! That's me! What else does she say? But just then she shut the notebook and got up for her stop. (Also: I hadn't know my bag was a bowling bag.)

Another time I was going home late at night, and half the subway lines weren't working, so I had to walk about fifteen blocks in the homestretch. It was very late — past one, I think. The streets were absolutely deserted, and I was a bit scared; luckily there was a 24-hour grocery store every five blocks or so. At one point, I noticed a police car. Three blocks later I glanced back, and there it still was — it was trailing me! When I turned onto my cross-street the police car couldn't follow me, because it's a one-way street, but its siren warbled goodbye. (You know the friendly, cartoonish sound sirens can make — "blurp.")