And she drifts by almost undetected, except for her raven hair coiffed underneath a wraparound straw hat that shields her face from the sun. She moves anonymously, quietly pulling what seem like portable possessions behind her.

Her haul consists of a single piece of luggage with a series of shopping bags packed to the rim. The shopping bags and luggage are secured by a cord that is seemingly as secure as the woman’s pride. I’ve never met her eyes; I don’t think she freely gives them away.

She sits in corners of coffee shops and inside other businesses, always out of the way. Her well-dressed manner is only overshadowed by her omnipresent tote, always nearby and attached by a rope. Her attention always seems solo-focused, with her items standing by her side, almost like a bodyguard. She’s an odd juxtaposition of taking up space and “there’s nothing to see here.”

If it were not for her portable treasures, she’d appear to be just another well-dressed woman relaxing at a cafe enjoying a cappuccino.

Just another lady moving about the world with intention, yet giving the impression of a woman living a life of enviable laissez-faire.

She reminds me of the delta between anonymity and shame.