Addendum:
I am a firm believer in the power of intention and also believe that I wrote the below post in a spirit of authenticity and positive intent. As such, the next morning, I found myself the recipient of what is oftentimes referred to as the law of attraction, the reverberation of my positive energy out into the world and back to myself, a point evidenced by the two party invitations I received for New Years Eve as well as the Sunday night dinner date I was asked to by a charming person…and all that within a day of having wrote the below post, discussing loneliness and single life. And now, off I trot to put on a pretty dress, tie up my hair and strap on my favorite pair of high heels. Happy New Year.

I’m about to get really real here so brace yourselves.
I’m lonely. Maybe it’s just tonight that I am feeling so isolated, nevertheless it feels deeper seated and longer lived. I don’t know why, but I’ve often found feelings of loneliness particularly difficult to own, like they are some sort of failure. I pride myself on my independence and self sufficiency; I go to movies alone, I live alone, I walk into parties alone…and I’m ok with all that. But I won’t deny that it’s oftentimes difficult. New Years is fast approaching and I find myself, yet again, dateless and without dependable plans.
I know it’s not so simple, but I just want to pose this singular, self pitying question to the void – what is WRONG with me that I am dateless on New Years, and coming up on yet another Valentines Day spent on my own watching rom coms and eating popcorn?
Alright, I know it’s not so uncomplicated a situation…but it feels that way in my weaker moments. “It’s not you”, say my girlfriends, “it’s the plethora of retarded and indecisive guys out there”….or the fact that Manhattan houses an unlimited quantity of beautiful women and homosexual men, but few single, attractive and somewhat kind heterosexual men. Most of the time I believe this, but in this lonely late night moment, I feel like I’m the un-desirable actor here.

I’m not one for labels, or rushed commitments, but I do like to sleep beside another warm person’s body, or feel the pressing and reassuring weight of strong arms around my small shoulders. It saddens me how constantly I’ve ached for those things in my life and how simultaneously seldom I have been able to depend upon them with any consistency.

This all sounds rather “woe is me,” and it is to a certain extent, but pointed at the fact that, despite my adamant assertions of indifference towards the opposite sex, I care. And despite my course of study, so steeped in critical gender theory, I feel like a little piece of myself goes missing when I don’t have a date to get excited for or an interesting guy to sit next to in class. I resent the idea that a woman is completed by a man, and yet I subscribe to it on some unconscious level, I must or I wouldn’t be writing this.

Christmas in Connecticut~

I left my New York last night, finally finished with finals and free to trot off to the country for a double hitter holiday, first with my dad in New Hampshire and then in CT with mom. I’m sitting on the sofa now, twenty to twelve on a Tuesday night with nowhere to go and no homework to do, and trying to de-activate the critically conditioned lens that my course load last semester demanded of me. Normally such is easy, as this sofa is a judgment free zone, a place where I am wholly myself, at liberty to sit around in sweats and stuff my face. But not so much tonight as with the onset of Christmas comes the arrival of family...which is fine but also feels a little like a real life reflection of a semester full of the judgment I've read, responded to and yes, even made myself. Where the opinions and critiques I encounter in an educational environment are limited to the page, or contained by the classroom, the perceptions, comments or raised eyebrows of certain Christmastime company are less easily controlled.

It feels to me like the more criticism I am around, the more I apply to myself and that makes me uncomfortable. Last night, before I jetted out, I met my best friend for a quick cocktail at Coffee Shop. We laughed and swapped stories about final exams and the men who distracted our attention from them. The personal quality of our conversation was effortless and based on an unspoken trust that is rooted in freedom; the freedom to be oneself, to have independent thoughts, and to do things knowing that the other person will support you, regardless of whether they would do the same themselves. Not so at Christmas in Clinton CT where, “now why did you do it that way?” is a question commonly posed in accordance with a seemingly curious facial expression that belies the certitude of the inevitable explanation as to why whatever you are doing is being executed inefficiently, and is therefore proof positive of your utter incompetence.

If that last sentence sounded like a lot, it was meant as a mirror to the overwhelming nature that constant critique of one's actions, be they spoken or just implied, can incite in an otherwise relaxed person such as myself. Makes me miss New York, where everyone is their own little island, affixed to an Ipod and intent upon minding their own business.

I just saw the movie, “Waitress” and loved it. If you haven’t yet seen the film, watch it. The main character is, not surprisingly, a waitress. She has, however, a special talent for making spectacularly unique pie, creative expressions of her inner angst, joy or any combination of the two. Our waitress, Jenna, is married to a complete doorstop of a man who is narcissistic, jealous, and whose face resembles a giant potato. Jenna is therefore despondent when she discovers herself pregnant. Luckily, she meets and falls for her adorable pediatrician who is as earnest and sweet as her husband is a boob. He adores her and they begin a springtime affair.

At one point in the film, writing a letter to her child to be in reference to a particularly tender moment with her lover/doctor, Jenna writes,
“Dear Baby, I hope someday somebody wants to hold you for 20 minutes straight and that's all they do. They don't pull away. They don't look at your face. They don't try to kiss you. All they do is wrap you up in their arms without an ounce of selfishness in it.”
As she said that, I began to sob, slowly at first and then dramatically, so much so that I grabbed my notebook and wrote the following:

My heart is thawing now,
And it hurts like a dry sob.

Where before it had settled into a dull ache, frozen over and forgotten,
It’s crying now, deep tears I can’t stop.

I’m scared of this impossible heartache,
I’d rather the chill of indifference, I have so recently felt so close.

I’m afraid I’ll never fall in love,
That no one will love me, even if I do.
I’m afraid that no one will hold me,
That I won't feel peaceful in their arms, even if they do.

I'm afraid that my heart will be stuck forever in this fear,
half cooked and always in want of a warm skillet.

It’s cheesy but it’s true. I had a date last night, my second one with the same person. The entire process exhausts me, beginning with an anxious battle between my rational mind and emotive fears, all leading up to my walking out the door. It gets easier in the moment, when I'm actually sitting with the person. But I can't keep from looking for the spark? Did I feel it? Or was that just the rum and coke?
And when did this ever get so hard?
Somewhere between love, disappointment, and the illusion of both.

Baby don't you cry,
gonna make a pie,
gonna make a pie with a heart in the middle.
Baby don't be blue,
gonna make for you,
gonna make a pie with a heart in the middle.

Gonna make a pie from heaven above,
gonna be filled with strawberry love.
Baby don't you cry,
gonna make a pie,
and hold you forever in the middle of my heart.

Written on a pillar in an NYU classroom at 194 Mercer street:

1. PKE...are weenies
2. Ruben St. Awesome was here
3. Listen to Neil Young....he knows
4. Where can I go to get away from these ghosts inside my head?

All seemingly written at different times and by disparate pens...all having stuck out in my mind, bugging me until I wrote them, list like in my journal, and acknowledged them as a funny and oddly poignant combination.

The Cheese Stands Alone.

I’m sitting in Bobst, around 6pm on a rainy Monday afternoon, reading about Keith Harring and waiting for a friend. I’ve lucked out, landing myself a spot in one of those big blueish grey armchairs with a bonus round end table for a footrest.

I’ve barely noticed the girl sitting next to me, not until her seat is approached from behind and a big pair of hands clamps down upon her shoulders. It’s her boyfriend.

He asks how she is, about her exam and whether she’d been napping or reading before he arrived. In a moment, and quite surprisingly, I felt myself a little drained, deflated by their affection and my solitary spot beside it. Most times I think I am not the girlfriend type, particularly because, thus far, those who wanted to match me were not the men I hoped would try.

So maybe the right fit just hasn’t come along yet, or maybe he never will. Maybe it’s all just as much of an illusion as I’ve worked to convince myself it is. I’ve never played pessimistic for long in my life, but I’m feeling it now. Or just hopeless maybe.

My old flames have now all settled comfortably into facebook photographs of them with their significant other, while I, the cheese, still stand alone, with a foot on each side of the great optimism/pessimism divide.

This weather reminds my heart of so much. Like getting off the bus in Walpole at four o clock on a November afternoon, rushing into barn chores until 6:30 before getting gas for the black Volvo at the Texaco in Bellows Falls and picking up Chinese take out from Joy Wah on the hilltop. Heading home, smelling like horse, Dad in the drivers seat and darkness closing in over the valley. Rolling uphill, a long ascent to the big house on valley road, zipping fast around the road’s curves, the smell of Chinese food wafting from behind the passenger seat.

I wish I could remember arriving home but my memory stops on March Hill road, right at the dip in the asphalt where we speed up and for a moment, my breath catches in what dad calls a “thank you m’am”
After that, the screen goes blank, and like a poorly spliced reel of film, my memory skips ahead, passing over years, denying me the scenes of my mother in the kitchen, unpacking a paper bag of Chinese food as I know she must have done.

A Memory Found Amongst Red Leafs....

Tonight, chopping up a carrot, I found myself momentarily transported to my New Hampshire home circa 2003, when I would sit at the kitchen counter, working on my algebra homework and listening to my dad make one of his signature salads, a series of concentric clonks as his knife cut through veg and hit upon the wooden cutting board. He does this all the time, carelessly brandishing large bunches of carrots, red onion and celery, chucking them into a huge black bowl that will sit in the fridge full of red leaves and veggies and covered in saran wrap. We’re big on greens in my family and when I lived at home, every few days my dad would make a salad, sliding chunks of carrot my way while I home-worked, popping a few in his mouth, while he talked, chewed, worked on a beer and listened to XM radio.
Making my own salad tonight, I went to cut up some cheese to go on top and saw my daddy, lopping of lumps from a big chunk of cheddar effortlessly. I remember once, trying to do the same with similar ease and struggling against the resistance offered by the door stop sized wedge. Dad knowingly tilted his head and watched my progress from over his drug store brand reading glasses. “Cutting cheese is a delicate task” he said.

Here on the upper west side autumn has arrived in full force.
Night rolls in by seven, couching my evening time walk to the park in navy blue and lamplight, illuminating only the silhouettes of the people I pass by. It is cold and crisp and the neighborhood itself seems to have grown into a warm and amber orange, perhaps in place of the leaves that it lacks. I’ve never felt fall so deeply in the city, perhaps because there’s never been the space to. But there’s kids up here, and with them comes a mentality that refuses to take itself too seriously. As a result, I’ve slowed down considerably and feel like I am living my life in the moment, rather than in anticipation of it.

My body is taking a deep breath and re-booting, the change is in my skin, my blood cells, and my ability to find peaceful sleep. The change is also one of space and how my body occupies it, a transition that is accented each time I go downtown for class and am tossed about and rattled by flocks of people, all on an individual mission. I used to walk Calvin on 10th street and find myself plastered up against a building, pushed aside by a throng of speed walking hipsters, their skintight jeans pushing all the blood to their loins, and giving them a slouchy and determined walk in the direction of alphabet city.

Up here it’s kids who fills the streets. But they are wide streets, with room for Calvin to walk way out on the end of his 16 foot long leash, for me to run alongside him, and for the kiddos to pass us by, or stop us to ask for Calvin’s name. These youthful west siders are out each night in droves, skipping down the street or perched atop their parents shoulders, flocking to one of the many candy stores that litter Columbus Avenue, nestled in between chic little bistros strung with the white twinkle lights I so adore.
Somehow the kids really bring to attention, not only the availability of space and the change it has affected in me, but also the change in the seasons. Fall excites them with its newness and the promise of an onslaught of holidays to come: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas…all of which translate to candy, stuffing and presents respectively.

Despite a bit of baggage that keeps me from joyously bounding towards the holiday season in full out childish abandon, in my heart, I too associate the entry of autumn with the excitement of Halloween and the like. It has shifted a bit though, and this year, I find myself perfectly content just to watch the kids tear towards home on a chilly evening, brandishing a newly purchased light saber and laden with plastic bags full of the makings of Luke Skywalker’s garb.

This essay is rambling, but full of the feelings of warmth and belonging that the upper west side has settled into my soul. I passed this place tonight, Alice’s Tea Cup…if I were tea spot, this is what I would look like. A purple painted nook on the corner of Columbus and 73rd street, glittering with warm and welcoming juju and bedecked in little white Christmas lights.

Tomorrow I will go have a cup of tea there. And I will walk Calvin the three blocks over to central park where we’ll take the path we’ve made routine, crossing the wooden covered bridge and passing through a small crop of wood that opens up onto the horseback riding trail. From there we’ll head over to the turtle pond, where older women set on the grass and read novels and couples make out on the dusty rock that juts into the water and offers a fabulous view of the Manhattan skyline. I’ll stop many times along the way to let passing kiddos pet my dog. I’ll breath in the moment, and think it sharp and obscure all at once, like it was as a child, in a world where the only anticipation was directed towards the turn of the season and the next celebration.

(FYI- the images above are photographs of a series of collages created by my mom, artist Mary Fussell)

Where’s the inspiration?
I am wondering this, looking for this, and doing so actively from a passive place on my couch.
My creativity is often spurred into life by another artist’s work, but nothing I’ve seen of late has really lit my fire. Well, maybe Julie Taymor’s film, Across the Universe. Although it was certainly not core shaking, the music brought to the forefront of my mind a musical influence I’d deeply loved in my younger years and hold close to my heart in the present.
Or maybe Joni’s new album, which I got my hands on earlier today. It’s subtle, like the lady herself, and needs space and time to sink in.

Time and patience are pivotal to inspiration, but I’m trying to push myself into it. I feel like I am wasting time, that my nights should be filled with hours of painting or poetry instead of trying to read Freud and ending up making booklists on amazon.com instead.

My mom has found inspiration in nature, using it to piece together a series of collages that are understated, organic, and altogether beautiful (see above) She gets in the flow with them and the art just pours out of her. I write a sentence of my story a night, before leaving it to tomorrow and turning on E! news. It’s awful to own up to, perhaps it's my hope that by doing so, I'll help things to shift.

I’m not sure if I know how to write anymore. Somewhere deep in my body is buried a trove of words that the past five months have rendered inexpressible. I’ve been in survival mode, and as I begin my re entry into the world of personal time and space, I find myself a shell shocked shell of the self confident self I left behind at the end of spring semester. I’m afraid to write honestly about what happened and I’m not sure I even know how to…or if I even want to. In fact, all I seem to want to do is to sit at the end of a long boardwalk, where it meets a set of steep stairs that lead down to cold water. Just set out like a lump and staring, maybe with a cup of coffee in hand, for however long it takes to reel in the magnitude of what has come and gone and how it’s left me changed.

Everything happens for a reason- I believe that, but I wonder if everything happens to make us better, wiser, stronger than we were before. My optimistic side says unequivocally yes but then why do I feel less peaceful than ever before. I feel disconnected from myself, like the stormy gray sea that my body is watching from the top of a boardwalk set staircase. And I’m frightened. Everything has gone so far the opposite from what I pictured. If I pictured it at all, which at this point, I cannot recall. How do I trust myself again. Forget about trusting other people, forget about men. But me, myself, how do I trust? How does one trust a stormy sea? The water is all around, encircling, embracing, holding. So who supports the water?
All around me encouraging eyes speak of how much I’ve learned, how well I have done.
And all I can think is how cold that steel gray water was, when I plunged on in.

I dreamed I rode a blue bicycle,
Hair streaming out behind me,
I dreamed Apollo was flying above,
And that you were there beside me.

See me, feel me, touch me, heal me

It amazes me the extent to which my dog stands epitomizes the visceral need we living things have for physical contact. He would sooner sleep in my lap, or curled up in the small of my back than any other place. It honors me so when he displays this unfiltered and absolute desire to share space, sleep and dreams. Partly because I need it too.
My current life schedule sees me spending around two hours a day in transit and as such, I have sufficient opportunity to people watch. It’s one of my favorite things to do, watch people. But somehow, on the subway such observation can become disheartening. I guess that’s why so many New Yorkers seem permanently plugged into various and sundry electronic devices.
I love my Ipod, it is a treasure for its ability to inspire the choir of my mind. But its knack for connecting me to myself also results in a disconnection from those around me and I often find myself floating through the city, detached from the beautiful mess surrounding me…which can get rather dangerous.
Indeed, I’ve been so overwhelmed lately that I’ve opted to leave out the earphones. This conscious choice invites a degree of unwanted attention from people who can be sure that I can hear them. What’s most interesting however, are not the random comments (though they can get quite intricate) but the very real emotion that walking through my day without distraction can incite. Not only am I more vulnerable to the ideas of others, but I’m more receptive to my own as well. The more I ride the train, the more obvious the unnatural detachment of the average new Yorker becomes. I’m frightened to end up permanently cut off from everyone around me. I fought so hard today to keep from spontaneously hugging the man sitting next to me when just hours earlier I had been exasperatedly elbowing my way through the morning rush hour. So I’m either bi-polar….or the dualistic blessing/curse of New York City’s anonymity has caught up with me after the three plus years I’ve called myself a Manhattanite. Maybe it’s time for a break…or maybe it’s just time to throw in the towel and fucking hug the random dude perched beside me on the evening express train home.

Now, I don't think I've ever posted a link without sufficient essay-ing to go along with it.
But...I think this one stands on its own.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=Tx1XIm6q4r4

Kundalini

I came here to find you, Kundalini,
And in looking, lost myself.

This cycle, a serpent's tail,
A tale of love lost, of life, and this path I choose.

Of my own mouth over my own skin,
My own body eaten,
And digested in my own gut.

Spit back up for you,
Regurgitated in a form I imagine you will like.

Perfect and pulled together,
and masking the mess
The thrown up bits and pieces,
Of yesterday's consumption.

You’re in trouble now, mister.

I’m gonna hold you down, no mercy.

You’re gona flip me over,
Lay me out,
Give me deep kisses,
And short-sided sighs.

You’re gonna chew me up and spit me out.
Because for all my armor,

I’m a Lima bean beneath your boot heel.

Mental check, is there anything I need?
What am I missing or is it just me-
Why did he choose her what was it about her,
That made him forget me, his own little daughter.

Years later these questions I pose,
The answers to which I guess nobody knows.
I look for them anyways, coming up dry,
And so I keep after unreachable guys.

Oh daddy, talk to me more,
Give me the meaning that I’m looking for.
Don’t know where I’m going,
Don’t know where you’ve been,
But I don’t want to lose myself over again.

A hallway of mirrors,
Purple painted stairs,
I think I can fly them, I wonder who cares,
I know that you want to; I know that you do,
But I don’t want to lose myself,
Looking for you,

It takes something visceral,
Rarified access to some deep seated pain,
To make me sob the way you do so freely.

Take it from me,
You take your tears for granted.

You can tell a lot about a person by their hair. It somewhat reflects their personality, I think. Mine's always been curly. When I was a little girl, it hung around my head in a fuzzy halo of golden ringlets. Usually, I quite like it, and enjoy with a rebellious lilt a hair do that's divergent from the blown-out masses.

That is not to say that I haven't oftentimes gazed longingly at the silky smooth locks of other women’s hair. Somewhere along the line, I came to equate straight styles with a certain type of person, one who carries the expensive handbags I peruse on ebay and goes on real dates with the guys I just hook up with.

Last week, I borrowed my friend's ceramic iron and straightened my hair.

Maybe I thought the change would make me one of them. In actuality, with straight hair, I felt invisible. But the ritual of it felt calming and sure, a solve-all inspired by a flat iron and the satisfaction I felt from watching the kinks flatten and the frizz become smooth. It was as if, by straightening out my hair, I was straightening up my life.

I recently remarked to the amazing Ariella, "When the going gets tough, the women in my family do our hair"

Twelve years ago, in the midst of familial turmoil, my mom went off to Washington D.C. for a weekend with some friends. When she returned, it was as a white suited businesswoman, with shockingly straight hair, highlights, and high-heeled shoes of python printed patent leather. The transformation was especially drastic as her free spirited artistic nature was usually mirrored by her appearance. But gone was her long and curly hair, her paint stained button ups and her red converse high tops. My mom suddenly looked like everyone else's.
In retrospect, it is clear that she was trying to be seen, controlling the only thing she could in a fucked up environment. It’s funny though, I think that the changes she made to her hair and her clothes, struck at the core of who she is and what makes her stand out, and erased it a bit. She became less noticeable to my father, to the community, and more blended in with what she sought to separate out from.

This morning, on the subway to work, I sat across from a window that the dark of the tunnel outside had tuned into a mirror. A week ago, when I’d done the same, I saw myself reflected back as foreign, a distant stranger with the straight hair that, to my mind, gives the impression of a simple lifestyle. Today I looked in the window, saw a curly haired girl, and breathed a sigh of relief, for in her eyes and unkempt curls I saw an acceptance of girlhood, an affirmation of my own curious playful soul, and an accompanying ability to accept the intricacies of my life. I am a corkscrew curl of a woman, one who loves to dance, dream and play dress-up. It is my hope however, that I’ll always return back to myself, to my mother’s arms, to my father’s laugh, holding the memory of each next to my curly, complicated heart.

These dreams of the seaside.
This west coast wanderlust.
Maybe they’re just another way to wonder where HE is,
The mythical one and only whom I’m afraid does not exist.

I dream myself a poet,
Twisting words with the waves and the sunset shadows on Santa Monica sidewalks.
But I’m afraid of course,
And wake up worried that he won’t come,
And that my wave worn words are nothing by fluff and foam,
The washed up remains of another artist’s mind

My mom and I went tonight to see Joan Didion’s play, A Year of Magical Thinking. In my mind now, I am dead. A part of me is grey and dried up. Perhaps like leaves do, growing stale steadily, green only at the tip and wilting everywhere else.

And then, the feelings the play provoked are the same that keep me breathing and alive. I just don’t know what to do with them.

Around me, people are putting themselves to good use. My roommate is reading Joyce and Keats with genuine interest. The magnificent Lady J is giving wings to the children of her creativity, and I...don’t know what I am doing. Of course, there are always those people who seemingly do nothing but go to work, or sleep around but I try to pay the passionless little mind.

Anyways, I write…these little ditties all day long, scribble down feelings, sentences, and I don’t know what they mean. I set around and think about writing…or painting. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t…sometimes I start and get so antsy that I leave in a flurry and wander around Manhattan for hours. Or run out to Connecticut, set on the beach, and stare at the water.

I get this crazy urge to go. I want to sail and drive and move through space.
I dream of California and open water.
I dream of a childhood I can’t remember and wake up rushing to write it down before it slips away.
I want to write a great novel but I don't know my own story yet.
I wonder if I have to.

A couple walking down 10^th street late on a Monday night, she in a summer shawl, and he holding her waist. They stroll from restaurant to wine bar this way and I watch them, thinking how comfortable they seem.

Man in black with a beret perched sideways on his bald head. Taking steps towards his tidy apartment on Avenue A. His feet turn outwards at the toes when he walks, and give him a long stridded, lumbering gait.

Dishboy, emerging from the basement of a nearby noodle bar, carrying a bag of trash and pausing to let me pass before heaving his load onto the sidewalk.

Monday night, East 10th Street, walking the dog.

These things that I want you to know.
Who I am, what holds me,
What I hold – I clutch.
Tea rose and good luck charms,
Fear and the past,
And this navy blue hole in my rose petal heart.

In the summertime there is a distinct breeze that floats along when the weather is just so and the sky is a hazy shade of blue. It is a soft, scooping wind, one that’s smooth like the inner crevice of an ocean-licked seashell. This breeze is the kind that cups your skin in the palm of its touch, and feels effortless and loving. It’s difference from other winds is like the distance between an intent and heartfelt kiss and one that is pushy and lustful. This breeze shakes only the tops of the trees, and but flutters through your hair, never shaking it loose or mussing it up – it is a lazy breeze from across the bay, the Summer Wind sung to by Frank and felt in this moment by my pen and my skin as I sit out on the porch and watch green leaves dance lackadaisically.

I’m glad I’ve slowed down enough to see this, feel this, because so often I forget to. My writing repeatedly takes the form of analytical exploration and as such, I am always hashing things out in my mind in order to cogently connect them into strings of sentences. But right now I’m right here and have only the power to write of what I see and who I am in this very instant – girl set out on a blue porch, pink sneakers up on the railing, and ice cubes clacking in her glass.

Everyone seems to be settling down and into a relationship. And I…well I am lying on my bed with my little dog, listening to Robin Thicke (don’t tell anyone) and wondering what I want. Someone smart once remarked that the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. Wise words that are worthy of some serious note each time we start to feel sorry for ourselves. Everyone has their weak points, insecurities that oftentimes seem to be couched in the areas in which we appear to be the most confident.

From time to time, I myself tend to slip into waxing woeful over my independent status, glumly eyeing the sexy couples at the Madison Square Park dog run whilst feeling like a boob sitting there alone but for an iced coffee and a little dog who won’t move from beneath my bench. But then I think, who knows what’s really going on with those pretty pairs? Very rarely are our assumptions of others anything but reflections of our projected perfections. It’s not hard to think you want something because you somehow learned you are supposed to. Maybe that’s just my way of brushing off romance as pheromone based hormonal surges, but then again, maybe I’m on to something. I guess I’ll keep trying to figure it out and in the meantime, suck it up and walk my way into the dog run brandishing my plastic coffee cup and feeling as secure in my silent self as possible.

Besides, technically I don't sleep alone...I got a little black and white fluff ball streached out beside me each night...and he never ever snores.

I’m watching Woody Allen’s Manhattan from a hunkered down perch on my mother’s sofa, out in Connecticut, miles from New York City. The town I love has exhausted me, first with its bedbugs, then the apartment search. All day long I’ve been funky, mulling over my impending lease signing, the audacity of our realtor, the price of my realtor, and most of all, the magnitude of Manhattan’s monthly rent. Last week, I looked at apartment after apartment, from the Upper East Side to Alphabet city, none of which fit my price limitations in anything but a disappointing way. 2, 600 dollars a month for this!? A dirty matchbox, blocks and blocks from public transportation, 20 flights up and full of roaches? What is more, they might not accept me! I roll my eyes as my agent disapprovingly runs her eyes over my mother’s bank statement…if this is par for the course, what is to become of my Manhattan? If we fast-forward twenty years into the future, will the great cities of the world be owned only by the rich and famous? What will New York be like without its crazy kids, its starving artists, its students, its starlets?

Well, I guess there's always Brooklyn...

My life right now is:

Work in Chelsea
Walking Calvin and willing him to pee
Luna Bars
The sunset by the Westside highway
Tompkin’s Square Park and the regular’s on Avenue C
Coveting this: http://www.ravinstyle.com/shop/productDetail.asp?p=3529
Tired feet shoed in pink Keds
The feeling of sweet satisfaction as I turn the key of my very own apartment

It's a Wonderful World~

Curled up next to me and sleeping soundly is a bit of warmth and rising breath. I’ve dubbed it Calvin in honor of my favorite cartoon character, whose perpetual six-year-old state meshes with his mischief and big heart to create an endearing and familiar kid. At this point, I feel somewhat like Calvin’s unnamed mother, exhausted for having run after my charge all day, picking up after him, spending money on him, trying to concentrate as he pestered me with unbelievable persistence. At times I’ve wondered what I have gotten myself into, questioned my carpe diem standpoint on puppy raising and potty training, doubted my intuition and natural predisposition to do away with all leashes and accompanying accessories.
Indeed, today flew by with the same kind of scattered energy associated with having a child. The combination of this rush and a single slippery sock misplaced found me falling on my ass, hard upon the hardwood staircase, shattering the painted popcorn bowl I was carrying and bringing about a big purple bruise on the left side of my lower back. I know the bruise will fade and with it, these feelings of frenzy, but I also worry that the coming weeks will slow that process. In the next fourteen days I will start a new job, move to new apartment, and travel to Springfield for the Vermont spring classic horse show, Calvin in tow, reclaiming the grooming position I swore never to return to, all so I can be close to Ham and coach the little girl who will show him in my stead.
It all feels hopelessly overwhelming when I venture too far from the present moment. Luckily, I am calmed by the words of my little buddy’s namesake, who wisely stated to his best friend Hobbes, “We're so busy watching out for what's just ahead of us that we don't take time to enjoy where we are.”… Maybe tomorrow I’ll be mopping up after Calvin’s inability to control his bladder, or coaxing him into his carrying case despite his adamant protestations. But all that effort means nothing in this moment, and here, I am at peace.
Throughout the day, I’ve weathered the fluxuation between feelings of utter adoration and absolute frustration, ending up here, on the sofa with a helpless little lump of love and the knowledge that I’ll never be alone again. As I bid a piece of my independence farewell, I welcome in a friendship I am sure will be a core shaker, an inconvenience and a distinct blessing.

Mirror Mirror of my Mind~

For all the fabulous experiences I find in my New York home, it also seems that it is when I am outside of it that I slow down enough to experience another kind of encounter. Where in Manhattan, I often happen upon surprisingly inspiring people or places, in my Connecticut or New Hampshire homes, I knowingly create them.
Neither mode of stimulation is better, but there’s something to the intentional manifestation of inspiration that really stays with a person, perhaps more than the revelatory quality of magical Manhattan’s many mysterious characters and the lessons they regularly offer up. Or maybe it’s just that New York is in such a constant site of meaning and motivation that such becomes old hat and commonplace, impersonal for it’s ever-constant flow and impartial impartment.
Perhaps I’ll never work it out, doesn’t matter really…what does matter are the experiences I find in each place and the cultivation of my capacity to tell their stories. Today has yielded one such story, with many parts and no real point, aside from the peaceful easy feeling it has left in my heart.

This morning began blustery and with bursts of rain, splattering drops upon the windshield of my mom’s hybrid as it whirred along on the way to Weston CT, carrying myself, my mom, and two of the people who’ve known me the longest, characters I call my family. We were on our way to a memorial service, a gathering of friends at the home of one of the decade’s most noted architectural talents. I wandered through his family’s home, a house of many windows, each of which ushered in light, despite the dreary day. In each pane I saw myself reflected and as the afternoon wore away, full of tears, wine spritzer, and mini quiches my mind became another mirror, at times reflecting reality from the perspective of someone looking at me, a vantage from which I saw myself, sitting in my steam pressed suit set, and watching people feeling the inevitable loss that life entails. I watched my mother’s best friends, people I love, stand up and speak about someone whom they had loved. I saw that person’s thirteen-year-old daughter stand there with them, in front of fifty some odd people, all of whom had loved her father. I furrowed my brow, wondering if she knew, wondering how she could know, that her father was gone and her life forever changed. In that moment, I was an absolute observer of unfiltered life, and in that moment, I felt myself more alive than I had in some time. I touched my own fears and felt myself a woman, and I know now, that no matter what, I’ll be all right.

Later today, after the service, after we’d driven home in a fog of four o’clock traffic, I had to get out, had to move. Emotion was clustered in my core, not uncomfortable, but congealed and in need of some shaking up. I drove fast and with the radio loud, window down and cold air on my face. From time to time, I watched my eyes in the rear view window and smiled at the light that danced in their blue reflection.

I went to a movie and was one of two people in the whole theater and found it fun.
I went to the beach long after the sun had set and the Moon sat almost full in the night sky.
The clouds had cleared and several stars stood out so brightly that I wondered if they were planets, or moons, or just sparkling reflections of my own eyes in a much larger mirror. The high school sweethearts cuddled in their cars watched as I sat myself on the abandoned swing set and pumped my legs till I flew towards the Moon, laughing for the perfection of the moment, and my capacity to feel it so fully.
I am exhausted, the day has passed, and with it, a myriad of emotions, all of which I’ve allowed to flow through me, watching them just as I watch myself reflected back by multiple mirrors, each of which changing the way I look at things, and by extension, the very things I am looking at.

When I was a little girl, the Sun seemed to stream into my family’s house from every window, casting wide and asymmetrical squares of light onto the Oriental rug and embracing my little body in warmth and protection. That rug saw a continual parade of action, like my daily dress up parties during which I flip flopped across its surface, decadently dressed to the nines and toting along the family dog on a leash. Or each night’s bountiful dinner, be it between my parents and I, or including the bouquet of boisterous characters I called family.

When those days disappeared, so too did the sunlit squares, replaced instead by rain streaked window panes, slamming screen doors and angry voiced against a background chorus of chirping peepers, singing me to sleep from the woods just outside my bedroom window.

But when I wondered what would protect me, there was always the Moon, the feminine. She who rode alongside me through the darkest of nights when I couldn’t sleep, and through the long car rides home when I leaned my forehead against the cold window of the family car and found her peering over my shoulder, keeping me company as my family tensely traveled through time and the silent spaces of dark winter nights.

Tonight I lay on my back on the same Oriental rug that served as stage for my childhood theatrics. Out the glass doors of my mother’s house I saw the moon. She is there for me now, and in her nurturing, protective gaze, I think I have found the Sun.

Perhaps nothing is ever truly lost so long as you can hold it in eyes of your heart and mind.

Watching raindrops fall down the windowpane and splash upon the sill
They are a tease to the tears I can’t shed
Droplets onto the sizzling hot heart of my pain

I crave crying and cannot muster it
My tears are displaced and turned into resentment of laughter
If I can’t access pain, why can’t others feel it for me?
Take my pain; take it from me, please, as I have always done for you

We are in one room, one conversation, and worlds apart.
And I wonder, who is stronger?

I find myself frequently comparing the men in my life to characters from Sex and the City…is he a Richard or a Smith? A Steve or a Big? Which category he falls into somehow seems to dictate how I treat him. Oversimplified? Perhaps, but certainly a fun way to weather the constantly changing climate of my current sexual storm. So as long as we’re playing this game, where do I fit? That was always an easier conclusion to come to, simple really. I place myself somewhere in between Samantha and Carrie, a fusion of one character’s curious and questioning approach to herself and her relationships and the other’s uncomplicated independence. At least with the close of the series, all ends well because of not despite each character’s respective trials and tribulations, mistakes and moments of happiness. I can only but trust that my fate will be similar and venture fearlessly into the future…

After a few months apart, my dad and I met up today. Finally. We walked for a few hours on a windy Connecticut afternoon, over the terrain of our mutual past, getting ourselves on the same page, and turning a few in the process. Our relationship is one of extreme closeness and too long away from dad’s conversation and company leaves me feeling stuck and unsure of my purpose, a sentiment that has felt somewhat exaggerated of late. Codependent? Maybe, luckily, we talked about that too.

The older I get the closer to my past I become. I am aware now of emotions that I have never before been present enough to feel, a testament to a tumultuous year full of change and courageous confrontations.

But it’s also painful. I watched my dad pull away today in his company car and felt cold with the knowledge that I have no idea when next we’ll meet. Almost instantaneously my mom arrived home from a daylong artist’s workshop and I turned my eyeballs skywards, thanking the great whomever above me that my parent’s paths had not crossed. My reaction to her return felt out of my control, as if I was watching myself become angry and withdrawn in response to her presence, a default response of pure emotion with little else to back it up. For years such was normal protocol in all areas of our relationship, and is thankfully no longer so, but transition between my parents still incites irritation and impatience.

Attempting to dispel the frustration I felt with my own anxious anger, I went out for a long drive, flying down 95, listening to Hartford’s number one for hip hop and R&B and watching the sun set like a blood orange in the sky, spilling it’s juicy soul all over the blue shoreline horizon. I shifted into the soft blue of the evening, and drove long into darkness. When the radio went fuzzy, I put Mariah Carey on my Ipod and shamelessly sang along, slipping over back roads, and past the landmarks of my childhood I once thought gone forever.

Funny how one can learn
To grow numb to the madness
And block it away
I left the worst unsaid
Let it all dissipate
And I try to forget

As I closed my eyes
Steadied my feet on the ground
Raised my head to the sky
And the time rolled by
Still I feel like a child
As I look at the moon
Maybe I grew up a little too soon

As I sang, as I related to the music of a much teased lady songstress, I eased myself into acceptance, and thought a lot. Not the conscious sort of consideration, but the kind couched in music and in the speed of the car through the moonlit darkness of a starless night.

"I Want to be a Part of IT, New York , New York...."

As I walked into Grand Central Station today, a thought walked across the forefront of my mind – a thought that was at once a question formed on the framework of feeling unconditionally in love with New York City and the ever-present curiosity surrounding such a soulful and comfortable sentiment.

And again, after class, as I walked across the main floor of Bloomingdales, smelling my sample of the new Channel parfume, swinging my medium brown bag satisfiededly from my fingers, and feeling myself a veritable goddess of my Manhattan, I was again struck by the city’s sheer power to transform the attitude with which I walk through it. Where before I was slumping, now I was skipping.

Maybe it was the shopping, but I doubt it...I think it’s this – New York is a world unto itself, full of stories. Broadway at 6 p.m. is a veritable buffet of bodies, flowing in seemingly endless abundance, providing ample opportunity to disappear within them, or to stand out amongst them. My mind matches the mass of Manhattan’s streets with a plentitude of words, a constant stream of language, bursting to be written out, so much so, that I stopped beside a Strawberry’s on 43^rd and Lexington to scribble all this out, purging my mind of the fear that I’d forget the sentences that were scrambling to be freed.

And yet, I love the country and find parts of myself, inaccessible when within the city, on the shore, looking out on the Long Island sound and discovering in the crevices of my mind memories long forgotten. Or at the barn, where every smell recalls to me semblances of self, forgotten on the city street. But in the end, it's New York that pulls from me the creative fruit of each place’s past. Lessons learned long ago, and memories of my childhood, are recovered by Manhattan’s movement and my place within it. New York is like my Hogwarts, I move through it magically, meeting full on its many faces, and seeing myself reflected in its ever-open eyes.

Be Silent, Be Still...and May the Force Be With You

I write from Connecticut on a rainy Saturday night. I’ve slowed down, left the city, and am situated on the sofa, fireplace bubbling away, Star Wars is on TV, computer on my lap, and tea on the table beside me. I am doing some thinking here in my sanctuary, in a space where I am with myself alone and therefore am myself completely. Usually, such is when I am most content, answering to no one but myself and my dog, two beings who I know will never disappoint. I am worlds away from the flashing lights and deafening music of the nighttime environment that I’ve occupied of late, an atmosphere that simultaneously speeds and slows time. Feelings of freedom manifest in so many different ways. At times, it is on the dance floor that I am alive and in step with my own sense of self. Right now however, it is in the slowness of Star Wars and sleepy time tea that I find my own thoughts the most organized.

Yet tonight, with each passing hour spent in my own company, I recognize feelings of frustration that I have with myself, ones that have been clarified by slowing down and sitting still. I am exasperated with my continual repetition of familiar and unfruitful choices and my simultaneous hesitance to trust.
I wonder though, if those feelings of dissatisfaction directed at my own personhood are also upsets with others that are easier directed fully at myself. Is it that I cannot trust or that others are untrustworthy? Perhaps, but maybe there’s more to it. Time and again, as I move through my life, I find myself wondering what happened to getting to know one another? People are so anxious to get what they want from others that they throw the process of forging friendship into hyper drive. The result is a handful of relationships in which nobody really knows each other. I suppose it is ostensibly easier to project your desires onto others, making people into who you want them to be. But so far, my experience tells me that such never yields lasting connections.

Here I am on the sofa, spending time with myself, comfortable going slow and sitting with the unabashedly honest workings of my own unfiltered thoughts. No loud music is necessary now to numb my words, no vodka cranberry to ease my anxious mind and make conversing less awkward. I’m not busy and I won’t feign an impending assignment or appointment to give my silence an endpoint.
Outside the peepers are chirping, a sound I enjoy with a bit of surprise and a great deal of content as they are the heralds of the warmer months, evenings of balmy breezes and solstice moons overhead.

I’m ok in this space, alone and ok, two sentiments that are oftentimes seen as contradictory. I place a great deal of importance upon being able to be alone, possibly because I know I have a tendency to hold others at arms length and partially because I think it impossible to connect with others before you can do so fully with your own self. It’d be interesting, however, if we all did this more with each other. If we behaved in the company of our friends and lovers the way we do when we’re alone on the sofa watching Star Wars. Maybe we don’t trust one another enough to be silent; maybe without the music and mayhem of this month’s hottest club, or the distractions and discord of a New York City weekday, we’re afraid of what we might let in.

An acquaintance recently grabbed me by the shoulders and asked, “when are you going to let someone in?” – I was taken aback by the realness of the question and have thought of it several times since then. I wish I knew the answer and admit that I do not. I think, however, that it will happen when someone is willing to sit on this sofa with me and forget I’m here, sharing their stillness and silence…and Star Wars of course.

Venice~

I slept last night in a hotel with silky off white sheets and fresh oranges on the bedside table. Outside was Venice, a world beneath my window more alive and full of art than any I’d seen before.

Sitting in a café, watching women’s hats go by, blending my impressions with espresso foam, each sip stirring the scope of my soul.

Canals support the city, feeding in spirit just as the veins pump life into my heart. I feel each pulse, magnified by Europe and slowing only to sleep, soft, safe and understood, upon silken sheets and empty orange peels – spirals of spirit, juicy slices of my soul.

An Adventure to Italy~

Our journey began in February when first we decided to travel abroad. Initially, our intentions had been to visit our friend Ari who is studying abroad in Berlin, but since neither of us really wanted to go all that way just to stay in Berlin, we began to consider going first to France or Italy, and then onto Berlin. It turned out, however, that the cost of transit between countries was higher than we could pocket and so, our vacation became dedicated solely to adventures in Italy excluding of course our experiences in between connecting flights at Charles De Gaul, but that is jumping ahead.

We left on a Thursday, heading out for the airport around 5:30 p.m., dutifully early in accordance with guidelines of international jet setting. Everything was easy peasy on our first flight, at which point, I wrote in my journal the following:

We are airborne, settled soundly in our seats, watching James Bond pout in Casino Royale. I can see the moon out my window, she is flying alongside me. Magic white light moonbeams. Inspiration is unlimited at such great heights. Clouds form characters in my mind’s eye, mythical and magic. I think now I see angels and wonder what the difference is
between them and my own heart’s sighing song.

After six long hours in flight, we landed in Paris ready to move right onto our next and significantly shorter trip to Florence.

But too much primping in the bathroom and a complete underestimation of the size of Charles De Gaul found us running for our connecting gate, missing our flight and sitting begrudgingly in a crappy airport café eating stale sandwiches and sipping four-dollar sodas.

When we finally arrived in Firenze however, it was all the sweeter and the sun kissed hills surrounding the city welcomed us like all embracing Italian mothers. Where in actuality, we found the Italian women to be exceedingly rude, the landscape itself never proved anything but radiant and encouraging.

Stephanie, Richa’s closest friend from high school lives in Florence for the time being and attends classes there through FIT. Naturally, we arranged to stay with her and she proved herself the hostess of the mostess. Richa was so excited to see her beloved girlfriend and for my part, I was ecstatic to get to know her better. A win win situation all around.

We arrived at Steph’s place, number 27Via Guelfa around 5:30 p.m. We were pretty pooped from all our journeying but the sight of Steph and the welcoming warmth of her beautiful apartment had an energizing affect on us. The best parts about the place are the oh so Italian glass doors that serve to separate the kitchen from the bedroom and the adorable little balcony complete with potted plants, spiral staircase, and laundry line adorned with one old pair of sweatpants which apparently have been hanging abandoned for months.

We oohed and ahed over the apartment, freshened up and went out for “apertivo” with a few of Stephanie’s posse including the adorable Francesco who is quite obviously smitten with our charming hostess. The lounge we went to sits riverside, and we sipped the city’s best mojitos whilst gazing out over the Arno. Apertivo, as we were to learn, is one of Italy’s most lovely traditions. In short, during certain hours of the day suitable for apertif (otherwise known as cocktail hour), the price paid for one drink buys you not only the cocktail itself but also unlimited access to a bountiful buffet of Italian specialties.

Jet lag having caught up with Richa and I, we all opted to turn in early that first night and fell asleep side by side in Steph’s big bed, gabbing and giggling about our experiences with boys, our cities, and our beautiful selves.

The next day dawned fairly early and was ushered in by our wonderful hostess as she manned the skillet and made us all Italian omelets. We set off from there to Steph’s favorite café for the first of what would be many Italian espressos. We saw quite a bit of Florence that day, starting the day with a visit to David at the Academia. Let’s just say, he is more beautiful in life than I could have imagined. Best part was his hands.

I was able to sneak a photograph of his backside, something I did in an attempt to capture Richa and Steph’s reflection in the glass divider between David and the public. Alas, my attempts were in vain.

At the Academia we toured a smaller room full of sculpture, seeing the pieces bathed in the sunlight, which streamed from the ceiling’s open windows. I found the sculptures of the upper class women, which filled the museum particularly beautiful. They posed, gazing over their own shoulders, caressing their own skin, exuding a comfort with themselves interpreted as vain by some of my company. Maybe so, but beautiful in my eyes nonetheless.

The rest of the afternoon was spent strolling around the Duomo. Steph and Richa climbed the bell tower, something I opted out of in order to shuffle about the Church, light a candle, and pop a squat on the steps in order to sit and watch people prance about their lives. The rest of the day was littered with gelato, bruschetta, vino, espresso, visits to the central market, and its accompanying side walk vendors. After dinner we went to the famous Ponte Vecchio, an old bridge famous for being the best make out spot in Florence. We all hugged at its center point and I made out with my hand…

After the love fest, we walked past the closed up jewelry carts, which look like beautiful finished wood desks with their covers pulled down.

On our way back over the bridge, headed for home, we climbed out on one of the bridge’s points that jut out over the water and sat, wine soaked and happy. I, being a bit afraid of heights, sat further back from the bridge’s edge, but my more gutsy counterparts, Richa and Steph had a grand time dangling their tootsies down towards the water below and scaring me silly in the process. The stars were out a bit and the air was cold, we lay on our backs looking skywards and feeling free.

The next day we walked around a lot, going to the Churches of Santa Maria Novella, San Lorenzzo, and Santa Croche, all of which were mucho bella and multo multo inspiring.

We also shopped a bit in the process, Steph found a fabulous pair of flats and Richa some elephant earrings. We decided that, being our last night in Firenze, it was only fitting that we go out on the town a bit and, after dinner, we headed to a lounge called “Twice” which was, at first, positively dead. Nevertheless, we three chickies had a great time commenting on the absurdity of Italy’s men, their fashion in particular. Francesco showed up and, after a few minutes, some of Steph’s other male admirers, Luca and Urbano, did as well. We all decided to go have some drinks at a place a few streets away and had a great time doing so only to return later on to a less lively Twice, taking over the dance floor and having a grand time time for sure.

The next morning dawned early, and we all headed out, Steph to class and Richa and I to catch our train to Rome on about two hours of sleep. Despite my sleepless status, I found the train ride to Rome very fun. It was nice to sit and watch the Tuscan countryside roll by, set to a soundtrack by my ipod and the rhythmic clacking of our locomotive vehicle. We arrived at our hostel, happy to have found it amidst an array of shops and vendors. “Sergio House” was a typical hostel, barren, yellow, and a bit depressing. Despite that point, we were grateful to have a place to sleep and, after checking in, set out to see some sights.

First it was the Trevi Fountain and then the Pantheon. The whole time we were both in absolute awe that we were actually there, places so far from those in our everyday environments.

From the Pantheon we went to the Piazza Navona and sat at one of the schmancy cafes there, sitting mimosas and watching the people mill about, backlit by an amber orange setting sun. At that point, we were positively glowing with a sense of independent accomplishment and contentedness. That feeling soon waned however and as our espresso highs diminished so did our enthusiasm for adventure. We had made it through the day with flying colors of red, green and white but crashed around 8 p.m., discovered that our hostel had no hot water and came to grips with our first bouts of homesickness. Thankful for each other, we slept early, curled up side by side in our big yellow, rock hard bed.

The next day however, we were once again ourselves and followed up our now routine espresso stop with a visit to the coliseum and roman forum. If you’re thinking that we are super tourists, full credit for our accomplishments goes to my girl Richa, who sure knows how to do the tourist thing, something I will admit to being less well versed in coming from a long line of arguably overly independent explorers. Her know how served us well and we really saw it all.

Day three in Rome was the big enchilada…the Vatican. Richa was super juiced for this one and we set out on our pilgrimage with aplomb, ready for long lines and big groups of tourists sporting brightly colored baseball hats and matching fanny packs. When finally we made it through security, Richa went on to climb to the top of Saint Peters, an activity I opted out of. I got the feeling that it was an experience really special for her, all the more so because she did it on her own. As for me, I plopped down on the steps of Saint Peters to do some journaling. Some find themselves in the church, others on its steps.

On the steps of Saint Peter
Time dissolved
Left me with heart beats
Caressed and cuddled by blood and sinewy strands of myself
Inspired and in spirit

The next day dawned bright and early and we hauled ass out of Sergio House, excited to say goodbye. Rome, for all its charms, was a pleasant city to leave behind and we happily journeyed back to Florence and the lovely Stephania. Upon our arrival, we set down our bags and went right back to the train station, this time with Steph in tow. Off to Venice we went, spending the three-hour trip playing hangman and talking about sex knowing full well that our cabin mate didn’t understand a word we were saying. We had three hours in the city and spent our time touring around, having a half assed dinner (they skimped on my seafood), and admiring Venice, which has to be the most uniquely picturesque city I have ever seen. We caught an eight o clock train back to Firenze; it was either that or leave at 3:30 a.m. which was a popular option until we realized that the city appeared to be shutting down around 7 p.m.

It was a bit difficult to let go of Venice, a transition made more comfortable by the train ride home, for which we were adequately prepared with two bottles of red wine, a box of crackers and a big wedge of brie, all of which we shared with our eager and endearing Italian gentleman friend in the seat next to us. We slept that night reunited with Steph’s big bed, which turned out to be the perfect ending to our indescribably transformative and funny week touring Italy.

Our flight left Florence at 1 p.m. and we landed safely in Paris two hours later. This time around, we were hyper aware of the time it takes to get from gate to gate in Charles De Gaulle and shook our tail feathers to get ourselves to our connecting gate in time. It was a bit of a pinch, especially as French security seems to be more severe than anywhere else. We made it though, despite several pat downs and inquires into Richa’s stash of wine bottles in her carry on backpack (don’t ask)

The flight back to JFK took a grueling seven hours and we landed with relief, especially as the weather in New York was horrible. We were so excited to get there and about jumping out of our seats to go home, get food, put on our jammies and sleep. Five hours later, that was a reality, but not until we waited, grounded, for four hours before being able to get off the plane. Needless to say, the long hours spent waiting for the airport to assign us a gate were torturous and I about ravenously attacked a stewardess for a piece of bread…

Despite our initial frustration (yes, there were tears involved) we were lucky to have landed at all. Our cab ride home was treacherous and several cars spun out in front of us as our cab driver cracked jokes about crazy Manhattan drivers. We walked into our empty apartment around 2 a.m., war torn and weary and grateful to be home at last.

But that’s New York, a place where crazy Jamaican cab drivers mix with sporadic snowstorms and everything in between.