People were nice: well that’s novel, I thought, as cars slowed for me despite their right of way. We waged a short battle of waving one another on, until finally the light turned red and I walked. 
I waved, smiled, as did the motorist. This happened several times. It didn’t seem right to press the point.

It couldn’t have lasted.
In retrospect, moving to a city because people seemed nice strikes me as a strange rationalization. Where is the urban nice index? Does the mayor’s office appoint a czar of niceness or is it an elected office? Wouldn’t one trade the grace of agreeability for reliable, if surly, public transportation? We live in cities because we care more about the dynamic, and are perhaps willing to make trades of space for convenience, nice for proximity. 
Or so one assumes. 

Lately, I’m the first to say hello when I pass neighbors on the street, trying to hold up my end of the nice bargain, or disprove the latest received ideas. But when I get to the end of the street, I wave my arms like a lunatic at the car that goes the wrong way round the traffic circle meant to slow progress between arterials. The driver presumably takes me for a clean, well-dressed lunatic, and I take them for someone who has become so accustomed to the narrow neighborhood lanes that they drive too fast and the wrong way. 
I, a city-dweller, can say that they grew up on a farm. This, the only ammunition I have, is a weak acid. From my father’s stories of growing up on a farm, I used to wish I grew up on a farm. 

And when I grew up, I would have moved to a city.