I have an agreement with the cities of the world. 

I love cities. I find things to do in them, like museums and used bookstores. 

I use public transportation and jaywalk, because I’m a yokel trying not to broadcast I’m a yokel. I flash my Oyster card and cross on red lights, all casual despite the trucks barreling toward me.  

I encourage others to visit cities. I give them my travel guides and itineraries. 

I mean, please. I never visit a city without an itinerary. I don’t even get out of bed without an itinerary. 

In exchange, the cities of the world are free of reptiles. I walk their streets liberated of herpetophobia. That green thing out of the corner of my eye might be last night’s Midori, but it’s never, ever a snake. 

So let’s have a chat, cities of the world. Because you are not holding up your end of the bargain. 

New York City, circa 2018. 

After taking in a musical, I pushed through the late-night Times Square crowd, desperate to make a train. 

I got stuck behind a wall of people, lined up from the street to the buildings. I felt like Robert the Bruce facing off against William Wallace in Braveheart. 

A sliver of space opened between the buildings and the last man in the shield wall. I flattened myself to pass through. 

And that was when I saw a lizard riding on the man’s shoulder. 

A lizard. Riding a man’s shoulder. In New York City. 

My choices were to slip past the man, hang behind and miss my train, or take my chances with traffic. 

The answer there, of course, was chance the traffic.  

I’ll take a speeding cab disinterested in the sanctity of my life over a shoulder-riding New York City lizard any day. 

The double whammy of reptile and urban betrayal was a lot to process. I hoped to heal from my trauma, but the universe is rarely so kind. 

In 2019, I visited Boise, Idaho, to meet my husband at his national convention of outdoorsmen and women.  

At the airport, my rideshare driver bounded out of the car. 

“Mama!” he sang. “Love it! Love the scarf, love the boots, love the look. Get in, honey!” 

I have no explanation for why I thought my driver’s sartorial exuberance translated into a reptile-free environment.  

I just did. 

My driver, who was running for mayor of Boise, invited me to his campaign event at a club that evening. 

And I would have gone. But I had tickets to a live taping of a hunting podcast because I’m a girl who doesn’t hunt but who loves a good hunting podcast. 

And, apparently, killer boots. 

The following morning, my husband told me a herpetologist at the convention had a snake with him. 

In the hotel hosting the convention. 

Which just happened to be my hotel. 

If I wanted, my husband said, I could pet the snake. 

I tried to think of things I wanted less than to pet a snake.  

I struggled. 

Quickly deducing my husband’s offer wasn’t a euphemism, I pondered my choices. 

I could skip the snake. No one would be the wiser to my cowardice except my husband, who was already well acquainted with it. 

Or I could challenge myself, batten down my phobia, and pet the snake. 

You guys know how I feel about overcoming fears. 

We entered the conference room. A crowd surrounded the herpetologist. He held the snake in a plastic tube, covering it from head to midsection. The herpetologist held the tube in one hand, the flickering tail in the other. 

As he spoke, he’d release the tail, his hand gesticulating.  

“Excuse me. Excuse me!” I said. “I’m going to need you to hold onto that tail, please.” 

Because, ick. Did I need to see a snake tail flailing in the air? I mean, I was in my cutest boots. My rideshare driver even said so. 

I ran into that herpetologist a few months ago because, well, my husband is an outdoorsman and this is the life I lead. Run-ins with herpetologists and snakes getting the AAA rate at my hotel. 

“You probably don’t remember me,” I said to him, relaying the above story. 

His eyes twinkled. “Oh, I remember you,” he said. 

Because let’s be honest. I was basically maligning the dude’s profession. 

This brings us to last week. I was back in NYC, hurrying again for a train. 

And that was when I nearly slammed into a woman with a large yellow snake draped around her neck, Britney Spears-style. 

And everybody knows yellow snakes are the worst. 

I don’t know why, any more than I know why a rideshare driver/ mayoral candidate complementing my fashion sense precludes urban reptiles. 

So, cities of the world, you have a choice. Me or the reptiles. 

And only one of us has cute boots.  

Heck, only one of us can even wear cute boots. 

I await your decision.