So I Live in New York Now. There’s That.
Believe me, no one’s more surprised than me. (See: January to April, 2005 and multiple statements that were in the vein of “As god is my fucking witness, I will NEVER live in this freezing-ass city again!”)
But a few things have happened since 2005 that helped get me back here. First of all, I bought a really warm coat. (Thank you, North Face.) Second, I’m no longer a grad student. I no longer hold the incredibly impressive title of One of the World’s Oldest Advertising Interns, a title which came with an enviable Manhattan view that included TGI Fridays, Duane Reade and Payless Shoe Source from my window at The New Yorker and a bed dressed with one sad, thin polyester blanket and a set of sheets (thread count: 3) purchased at Kmart with $25 of the approximately $50 I had left over from my student loan checks to live on for three and a half months. I ate at Gray’s Papaya a lot and considered the free chips at Burritoville an entitlement. It was not a particularly happy time, so I moved home to San Francisco.
I worked in advertising. Then I left advertising for publishing. I got a few promotions and made a not-so-bad living and had some opportunities to come to New York on someone else’s American Express gold card and saw that New York really is pretty awesome when you’re not suffering from a polyester blanket rash and are properly coated and gloved.
After I picked myself up and moved across the world to France (see: pretty much every previous Paris- and food-obsessed post on here and on tumblr), things got kind of interesting. I realized I’d been living Groundhog Day for a long time, which wasn’t really a surprise, but my whole French experience taught me, among about a million other things, that Groundhog Day isn’t really for me right now. As I’ve said before on this blog, a single lady with nary a parent left to care for, no man, no kids, no pets and no mortgage payment, should be out grabbing life by the balls, not sitting on her couch watching reruns of Millionaire Matchmaker and Top Chef. (In my defense, this was all pre-Downton, pre-Homeland, mind you.) Nobody’s the boss of me but me. Nobody ever was, of course, but jobs, apartment leases and rightful attachments to beautiful cities full of good friends made me feel like I wasn’t in control of changing any of it. But of course, I was, and I am. We all are.
And that’s how I ended up here in New York, freelancing with one of my favorite people in the world (and my long lost ad partner) and trying out subleased apartments in different neighborhoods to see what I like. Nary a full-time job contract or lease in sight, which is exactly what I want for now and hopefully will give me the schedule I need to keep on keepin’ on toward my big goal: seeing as much of the world as I possibly can, meeting interesting hilarious people from all over it who will teach me all kinds of shit, eating and yoga-ing (and now CrossFitting – that’s a whole other post of crazy) my way around foreign lands, and crossing off more than a few of those goals on my Get ‘er Done list. Like I said so elegantly last year, why the fuck not.
That’s also why I’ll keep writing on this blog under the title of Parlez Vous Loco, because you really do need to be a tiny bit crazy to move to the most expensive city in the world without a full-time job commitment and no place to live past 30 days out. Whatever. (That’s me being breezy. Are you buying it?? Good. Because I actually am about this.)
So bring it on, New York – gimme everything you got. Bring me your pizza. Show me your artisan cocktails, your overpriced coffee, your never-ending options of interesting things to do, your Broadway shows, your concerts, your rat-infested subways. Give me your handbags, your art – street and modern, your long walks and movie nights in the park. Help me discover your boroughs. Show me your freelance gigs so I can see the world. And for christ sake, deliver me your (tall, handsome, hilarious, smart) straight men.