On Monday, I turned 27. When I think about that number, I feel a strange combination of things. And also nothing at all.
When I was in high school, I wrote a list of what I would like to achieve in my life. The list, as I remember it, is as follows:
1. Publish a book.
2. Speak another language.
3. Learn to play pool.
4. Learn to drive stick.
5. Have hair to my waist.
Here are my achievements so far:
1. I've gone to school for what I love. Twice.
2. I've lived in three states, five countries, and three continents. Traveled to more.
3. I speak Spanish (or used to--I am out of practice).
4. My hair is halfway down my back.
5. I realized I don't like pool.
6. I drive stick.
1. I haven't published any stories.
2. I don't have a job.
3. Or my own apartment.
4. Or transportation.
5. Or a dog.
So. Last weekend I went to NY.
I'm not a city person, but there where were a few moments of inspiration. When I understood.
Like early morning in Brooklyn.
Watching bundled hipsters file into Gorilla Coffee, sighing with relief.
And seeing my friends! Devo in her cute booties:
It is her and Judy's last month in their apartment. They have lived there three years, I think. The end of an era, we all say.
Park Slope brunch:
And in the Bronx, Nora and Synphany.
They have two cats and a dog. A whole family.
Then to DC, where Caleb had stocked his fridge for my arrival.
It is a surprising city.
Complete with a Cuban santaria shop:
And on the way home: