If I can make it there...

I can’t hide it: I’m having an affair.

A love affair that started many, many years ago. One that I’m not ashamed to have last a lifetime. We don’t see each other often, but when we're apart my mind wanders and I can’t help but think about the time when we can be together again. Maybe someday forever…

It’s New York. NYC. The Big Apple. The Empire State. The city that never sleeps. 

And it’s got my heart.

Growing up, my addiction to silver screen classics often led my small-town imagination down its

crowded streets. As sewer steam created a smoky frame around a smoldering dame and some suited Mad Man / sing-songy sailor, they fell in love, just as I did. Sure, they were mostly all just cheesy sound stages of city stoops with bright lights flashing in front of painted backdrops featuring one of the many iconic locales, but they were enough to hook me. When we got the new TV guide each week (dating myself much?), I’d scan for “On the Town” and would insist that my grandma turn it on if she was watching us (she had the cable, duh).

Fast forward to age eighteen, where I frantically signed up for a UN Seminar class that would take me to that concrete jungle where dreams are made of. For several glorious weeks, I got a little taste of what I wanted to become: a badass boss lady in the big city. Of course, three years later, as graduation approached, my logical bastard of an inner voice talked me out of it... How could one afford the big city without a good paying job? No job, no move. Too pricey. You don’t know anyone. Totally rebellious. Be safe. You can always go later. It comes down to reality...

And later I did go. Back to visit as often as I could (earlier this month being one such occasion). But every time, I swear it only makes it worse. It’s always just a tiny taste. Like getting a big burger and fries, and you can only nibble at the fries because you’re still waiting for everyone else at the table to get their food and don’t want to be rude. Sure, the fries are good, but like, you WANT the burger.

I'm in a New York state of mind...

So I go. With a shit-eating grin plastered firmly underneath my stern New Yorker face. Because I don’t want everyone to know how thrilled I am. I want them to think I belong.

• I stomp rapidly down the sidewalk in Midtown, crossing just before the light changes, in my business best.
• In Chinatown, I pretend to walk away from that bag that I “don’t really like all that much” and then haggle over dollars that don’t really matter with a woman who barely speaks English.
• I can gather all the news I need on the weather report.
• On the subway, I avoid eye contact, while discreetly judging everyone around me (earbuds firmly in). I run to switch to an alternate line, even though I’m not in a hurry to get anywhere. And then spend all day bitching about that “crazy commute.”
• I get my pizza for 99 cents ($2.75 if I want two slices and a coke). And I fold it when I eat it. Standing on the sidewalk. Next to a trash pile and a sleeping homeless man (and his cat).
• On 5th Ave, I window shop at night: after all the tourists are gone.
• I wear practical footwear, but have heels in my bag.
• Like a pro, the Staten Island Ferry is something I take to avoid paying more money at other tourist locations. I’d say that I pretend to be a commuter there: but no one really wants to go to Staten Island.
• Bagels. I eat SO many bagels. And I suddenly have strong opinions on them. 
• I don’t use a map (on my phone or in hand) to navigate: I use the g’damn grid. Except when I’m south of 14th. Then I’m just lost.

And when no one is looking…. I put one hand in the air for the big city. And give change to that oddly talented homeless saxophone player on the street. And I smile; I smile like a damn fool as I grab photos of some hilarious graffiti on an alley wall or a wittily named ice cream joint (looking at you, Cold Mess). And I sing Frank Sinatra under my breath. And, yes, I’m that asshole who feeds the sparrows in Bryant Park. Just because I like to watch them fight.

Every time I wake up in that city that doesn’t sleep, I am recharged. I see iconic places, which I would go back to every single day and stare at if I could. Also, I see places that I never knew existed. There are entire boroughs I have yet to explore. Even the thought, gives me a thrill. There is so much new food to try. New faces to see. Streets to stomp. There is just so much that draws me in.

I don’t want just the fries. I want the whole damn burger. Now. Not later. Because there may be a

turning point…. Maybe later it won’t be as good. Or maybe making the move would ruin it for me. Maybe New York is meant to remain the mistress in this story. I hope she knows how much I adore her, and that she’ll be well taken care of, no matter what lies ahead.

Til next time, these vagabond shoes are longing to stray.

I don't have any reasons, I left them all behind.