Tag Archives: Travel

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It’s Funny That Way

I’m alone in New York. It’s raining and cloudy and though it’s half-way through March, it’s chilly outside and my luggage is getting wet. I’m wondering if I’ll like the girl whose couch I’m crashing on. I’m hoping she’ll like me. I’m praying that cab driver — who took forever on my very first ride in NYC — dropped me off at the right place in Brooklyn. God knows I don’t know where the hell I am. She’s waving and smiling, helping me carry everything I own in three red pull-along suitcases up two flights of stairs. I’m trying to fall asleep on a futon, trying not to think about the tough road ahead of me, trying to get comfortable in a stranger’s home, trying to make all of my parts to stop worrying myself into a hot little frenzy that won’t let me be productive tomorrow. It’s finally starting. It’s finally, finally starting — I’m here. I’m finally here. I never thought I’d get here.

Life’s funny that way, I thought.

I work at a magazine. Sure, it’s something no one has ever heard of. It’s not really prestigious. I don’t know anything about its subject matter: small business. But, it’s a job! I’m an Editorial Assistant, I’m writing, I’m web-producing, I’m going to networking events, I’m working. I. Am. Working! I get paychecks and pay stubs, tax-free subway cards and people who count on me to arrive on time at 9 a.m., coffee in hand. I’m learning why coffee is so freaking fabulous. I’m discovering why it’s absolutely necessary for my daily existence. I’m meeting new people but it’s such a slow process. I feel really alone sometimes. I miss North Carolina when it’s quiet in that itty-bitty apartment in Harlem, where it’s too scary to go outside but too hot to stay inside, and I can’t afford an air conditioner because I’m an editorial assistant at a trade publication that’s not on newsstands and doesn’t pay very much. But I’m employed. I’m employable. I did it. I didn’t think I’d actually get a job in publishing — everyone said it was impossible.

Life’s funny that way.

Why am I still single? I’ve lived in this damn city for eight months and I’ve barely gone on any good dates – none worthy of commentary or thought, anyway. I haven’t even had sex. Ugh. That’s so pathetic to think about, so I won’t. It was my birthday yesterday and not a single guy bought me a drink or asked me to dance or inappropriately commented on getting in my “birthday” suit as I sorta-desperately wanted them too. It’s been such a long, long time since I’ve felt any connection, any spark, any anything with anyone and I’m starting to wonder if it’s impossible. I’ve never quite liked being single, though I’ve held that status far more times than I’ve been committed. I’m tired of this crying and this longing, this self-defeating attitude, this basing-my-every-breathing-moment-and-every-ounce-of-confidence on having a guy or not having a guy. I’m so exhausted and I’m not the only one, that I know for sure. I think I’ll write about this. I think I’ll start a blog. Yeah, a blog. I’ll put it on Facebook and see if anyone relates. Writing a blog won’t be that hard or take up too much time, right?

Life’s funny that way.

I’m starting to not mind being single – maybe the blog is actually working as I had hoped. I’m feeling stronger and brighter, put-together and put-in-line — this was an incredible idea, Lindsay. Good job. You even made it to the homepage of WordPress — look at you! Maybe this could be something you really get into? But then there’s that guy. Oh, the boy. Why do I always meet someone intriguing when I’m trying to avoid anything distracting? I didn’t like him when I met him. I couldn’t decide if I found him attractive or not, if he was my style or out of my league. Then I really liked him. Then I slept with him. Then I couldn’t get him out of my head – or out of my bed – and then I fell in love. He kinda did, too, in his own little sick, odd, twisted way. Everything tingled and twinged from the back of my neck to behind my knees, where everything feels shaky, yet so certain. Love boiled into my skin and turned me around-and-around, up-and-down, inside-out, sideways and moving forward with a hundred bolts of butterflies shooting from my stomach and clouding my eyes into a crystallized rose hue that I wanted to look through more than any other view in this lovely city. I was mesmerized and hypnotized, tricked into a beautiful little fool with every naive bone in my body. I let him consume me, my blog, my thoughts and my heart – day-by-day, against any criticism and any concern raised. And then I realized that maybe, this blog wasn’t working, after all.

Life’s funny that way.

I’m so heartbroken and embarrassed, I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m tossing and turning at night. I’m putting my heart to sleep. I’m sad that year of writing the blog is over. I’m reminded by his voice and his touch, his smell and his bittersweet memories on all of these streets. These streets are still my streets, my New York, my city, my life that I carved out for myself – but it feels like he’s written all over it. But what’s left of us? A handful of URLs that’ll forever live online? Promises that are tainted with emotional infidelity and a wandering eye that made me feel unnoticeable? Late night, drunken text messages to a phone number I’ve annoyingly memorized and remember when I need to send something cruel or pitiful, or for when he sends me flowers, again, for no reason, even after I ask him no to? Our love – or at least some version of it – is butchered in dozens of emails I shouldn’t have sent and he shouldn’t have responded to. I’m catching trains and deliberately missing them, haunting my phone and cursing it in the same hour, doing all that I can to move on. I’m wishing him the best, I’m wishing him that happiness he’s been searching for…I’m wishing he finds love. I guess. I’m hoping we can one day be friends, but then again, maybe I’m not. I’m in between the hardest part of letting go and the moment when my give-a-damn runs out. And damnit, I’m missing him – though I’d never admit it to any of my friends.

Life’s funny that way.

I have the dream job! The DREAM job! Someone is paying me to write about things I would (and have) write about for free. I go to bed early to make sure I make it to work on time, I still light up when I see my own byline. I’m pinching myself that it all came together after this summer. After I was laid off from the job I despised, left to wait for someone to pick me up from Dunkin’ Donuts where I sat with a suitcase and my desk packed into a grocery bag. After the summer where I watched my savings slowly disappear after a year-and-a-half of building them up. After a summer of free happy hours because they were free, and wondering which percent I’d eventually fall into. But then it happened – an edit test and three interviews later – the job I loved, loved me back. And now I feel alive, now I feel like I can do anything. Now I feel supported and considered, overly satisfied and eternally grateful that something so wonderful happened to me. I never thought I’d get exactly what I wanted before I hit the big 2-5, but I did.

Life’s funny that way.

I have the greatest friends in the world. For the first time, maybe ever, I’m thriving on being single, instead of hating it. I’m not dating for dinners, but dating if the man is worthy of someone as precious as me. I’m reminding to talk to myself like my greatest fan would, I’m reminding myself to eat healthier, I’m reminding myself of what I want so I don’t go back to the things I think I want. I’m running and running, trying to find the next adventure, trying to get a head-start on the next life lesson that’ll throw me a curve ball that I know I’ll never be ready for. Because I never am. I’m making lists of things and places, trips and dreams I want to accomplish. I’m feeling like I’m running out of time and that time is moving so fast that I can’t grasp it. I can’t hold onto a week before it slips away, I can’t check anything off my bucket list when the bucket feels like it’s close by. I’m wanting to travel and go to Spain. Or Australia or Ireland or Costa Rica. I’m wanting to just go – but then I’m wanting to stay and enjoy New York more than I am. I’m wondering why my friends are getting married or getting divorced and I’m still wondering when to get started down that track. So, I’m pushing myself to do more. To see more. To be more. To have more. To give more. To grow more. But then also to do less and rest; to see less and appreciate the present; to have less and make do with what I own; to take more and not be afraid to demand what I want. To grow less and stay put, at this age, at this moment, at this hour, in this apartment in this city, getting ready to sleep to go to the job I love, single and satisfied being in the company of me, myself and I. I’m never quite enough, yet always more than enough to handle. I always have exactly what I need but I want more, though I know, I probably need less. I just want to keep on going – and going – and going.

The most beautiful thing about life is that it always changes, my mom says. It’s funny that way. 

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My City, My Calling

Packing to return from North Carolina back to the big ol’ city, Mr. Possibility and I discovered two things: we’re coming back with far more than what we came with and our belt buckles are a tad bit tight. If there are any stereotypes about the South that are actually true (and I’ll admit they’re true) it’s that everything is buttery, baked, fried, and flat-out delicious.

Even so, it’s not exactly a cuisine that’s good for you. And while we were in the South, we didn’t hold back: grits and shrimp, biscuits with gravy, toast with jam and honey, Dairy Queen, Dolly’s Ice Cream, Tastee Freeze, steaks, potatoes, hot dogs, hamburgers, fatty bacon that doesn’t need oil in the pan, Lobster Mac N’ Cheese, beer, wine, Tequila (him, not me), candy, sweet tea (he didn’t hate it), strawberry shortcake, and I’m ashamed to say there is more I’m not listing out of embarsament.

So, as I sit here, writing this blog before my midnight self-inflicted deadline, bloated and amazed I was able to eat a dozen or so shrimp after attending a childhood friend’s lovely wedding as Mr. Possibility is in a food-induced coma in the next room, I find myself dreaming, yet again of New York.

Back to my Cobb Salads with non-fat dressing, happy hours with skinny-girl drinks and my favorite wine, healthy stir-fry, and avocados. Plus my near-daily runs taking in the energy of the city and feeling the weight of my chest rise and fall with each breath. Back to brunches and my friends, shopping at a discount, working at a magazine, and being able to go anywhere I want by raising my hand and smiling, not worrying about a DD or back-country roads that love license checks.

Oh sweet North Carolina, you are many wonderful things that I’ve enjoyed sharing with a wonderful dude who charmed my friends and family, but you just don’t hold a candle to my New York. You each have your own qualities and it would be nice for the North to Meet the South occasionally, but when I think about being happy and the place I’m the happiest, it isn’t here anymore.

My group of friends have changed, but I’ll never forget the bonds I’ve cultivated here, with people that no matter how much time goes by, it’s so easy to reconnect. What I want out of life has changed along with my ideas about the right age for growing up and doing adult-like things like mortgages and marriages, but I couldn’t be more ecstatic for those who are blessed to find their love at young ages. My day-to-day is continuously changing and is hardly ever the same thing, and the best thing about New York is the possibility. And no, not Mr. Possibility, but just possibilities in general.

New York seems endless with opportunities: to go, to do, to be, to achieve, to find, to cherish, to love, to live, to learn, to know, to teach, to want. Whatever it is, whoever you are, whatever you want, whatever you need, wherever you want to go – the city has it and if it doesn’t, it can find it for you. The quietness of North Carolina is lovely but I miss the rush. I miss the noise. I miss the push. I miss the bustle. I miss the intensity. I miss the excitement. I miss the thought that everything is within my reach. Everything is close-by.

And now, as I publish and sign-off, the best of all is close-by: my calling, my city, my New York. See you tomorrow – and I may even bring the Northerner back with me. Though he seems to enjoy the South “pretty darn well, y’all.” (His words, not mine)

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A Real Relationship

I’m a pretty relaxed traveler. I don’t over pack but I pack enough. I’m not afraid of missing my flight but I’m perpetually way too early. I don’t set my plans in stone but I always have a general idea of what I’d like to do. Most of the traveling and exploring I’ve done, I’ve done alone, so globe or stateside trotting with someone else is just about the only thing that makes me a little nervous.

Mr. Possibility and I have been through a lot together and I’ve known him almost the entire time I’ve been writing this blog, making the process of learning to love myself, with or without a guy that much more complicated. I was specific when I started this journey that I wasn’t going to make any rules and I wasn’t going to stop dating if someone happened to fall into my life that I was interested in. Most literally, I just about fell into Mr. Possibility’s lap on that sunny afternoon nearly nine months ago.

And here we are today, preparing for our first trip together, attempting to put the past behind us and set out into the adventure that is a relationship. I haven’t been in one for a while and the last one (Mr. Idea) wasn’t exactly sunshine-and-roses, but with Mr. possibility, it was nearly impossible (pun intended) to not give it a go. There’s something about connecting with someone on such a personal basis that even if there wasn’t chemistry or passion or sex or all of the above, you’d still like who they were as a person, all other things aside. That’s Mr. Possibility for you – a good guy. A guy who gets me, who makes me laugh, who doesn’t try to hold me back, who encourages my dreams and is pretty dependable.

He is many wonderful things or he wouldn’t be with me – but one thing that he’s not is organized. I’m not the cleanest person in the world, trust me. Neither is he and that not-so-winning combination has caused some sticky situations in the past. But when it comes to preparing to go away or getting my affairs in order before leaving home for a week, I start to think ahead…well, ahead. Mr. Possibility doesn’t quite think in the same way, or rather if he does, he’s far more relaxed about it then I am.

I’ve had my suitcase packed for two days, an idea of what time we have to get up to be there in enough time, and our itinerary, including our rental car information and flight schedule printed. I’ve packed magazines I’ve been dying to read (and one for him), formulated a few blog posts so I wouldn’t have to stress on vacation (but I’m bringing my laptop, can’t help myself), and came up with a list of things I want to do. Mr. Possibility, on the other hand, didn’t start packing until right now, is stopping by a friend’s birthday party when we have a 6 a.m. flight tomorrow, and I’m finishing up laundry so he’ll have everything he needs.

Needless to say, perhaps, there’s been a little tension.

A big part of a relationship is compromise and accepting someone’s idiosyncrasies. I know I have ridiculous traits and I also know he has his, but if we can both learn to relax, to take a step back, and remember why we care – instead of what annoys the hell out of us – then we have a chance at a great trip and at a great partnership. I probably packed too many shoes and will be a little flustered if I don’t get to see some of the things I want to see, and Mr. Possibility could run away screaming from me if I ask him one more time if he has everything he needs – but I take him for him. He takes me for me. It’s not perfect and it’s not supposed to be, but it is life and this is a real relationship. We can’t escape reality, even if we are going on vacation.

I’m still coming to terms with giving up the single status but I’m excited about taking a trip with a man. Even if he happens to be the sort of man who is standing in front of me, asking which tie goes the best with the suit he wants to bring and neither of his options match at all. Did I mention we’re leaving ten hours? And his suitcase is empty?

Sigh.

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The Starter Apartment

Today I handed over the keys of my apartment to its new tenant – making me officially homeless for the next two weeks until the lease starts at my next home. And while I was more than ready to leave and start at a new place, it was bittersweet to hear my voice echoing in the emptiness of the studio that was once so full of…me.

I outlined the curve of the kitchen area with cards from friends and family throughout the past few years. I hung my straw hat above my bed, sat empty antique boxes on a dresser that wasn’t mine then and still isn’t now, placed penny jars from the paths I’ve followed, and filled drawers full of makeup, playbills, and ticket stubs I’ve collected. This place housed my many dreams, the failures I couldn’t avoid but survived, and the one man who shared a twin bed with me. It took me in after the city had its way with me, it comforted me when I wanted to escape the hustle of the streets to look into the “backyards” of my neighbors a street over. It was my resting stop where I wrote most of these blogs and where I began to come into my own.

Maybe it wasn’t the start of my story, but it saw me through the many New York struggles I faced when I moved here, and now, it will do the same for a new tenant who happens to be my friend M, from college.

A few hours ago, her plane touched down at LGA, and with a suitcase, carry-on, and kitten in tow, she took a cab to her new apartment. In heels, of course. I helped her carry her bags and gave her a tour of the neighborhood, making suggestions, and giving warnings of things to avoid. I left a few items for her that she may need, dishes and towels, umbrellas and a blanket. The thing about starting over and creating a life from scratch is that no ingredients are provided. All of those everyday essentials that we so often take for granted are all of the things necessary to design a home: curtains and silverware, rugs and lamp shades, extension chords and power strips, a broom, and toilet paper. Taking a leap of faith requires more than just a hope and a prayer, but also savings to hold you over until the job arrives – especially when all the commonplace items add up quite quickly.

After a tour around uptown, M and I headed for lunch in Union Square at one of my favorite Thai restaurants. As we were talking and laughing, I noticed the light of her face – she was unable to hide her excitement topped with a healthy dose of nerves. In a sudden rush down memory lane, I remembered that feeling all too well. Like me, like my friends K, E, N, and J – she did what she had to do to make her dreams a reality. And while it is too soon to tell what her dreams will come (though I’m certain they will be remarkable) – she said she didn’t feel brave. Not moving wasn’t an option, not coming to New York was not even an idea to entertain, it was a make-it-or-break-it situation and even if she doesn’t make it big, she won’t be going home.

And everyone I know who has been in her same shoes, including myself, has felt the exact same way. It isn’t about the guts it takes, it is just about the gate that has to be opened to let life…begin.

But after it starts – then what?

Handing her my keys with a smile and a warm hug, I realized I’m past the starter stage. I’m not a New Yorker by anyone’s terms and especially my own, but I’m also not a newbie. I know the city, I’ve found my footing, I’ve been blessed with wonderful friends and a strong network, I’ve immersed myself into my industry, and I’ve been lucky enough to find a pretty great guy, too. Things continue to be new and I anticipate many new beginnings in my near future, and so when the new rolls in, the old must exit gracefully.

The apartment started me – it gave me a foundation. And that was its purpose – to be the starter. To ignite me and provide stability, and now with a little more street smarts, a little less liability, and some places to land should I fall, there isn’t a need for a starter. Like most of what brings us joy in our lives, it has its tenure and then we move onto the next thing, to the next dream to tackle, to the new empty space to make into a home. And in a year or so, M will find herself leaving the start to find her way to where I am now.

And that’s a place that isn’t defined by starting or ending, creating or growing roots. Instead, it is a place where New York is still just exciting, still gives me butterflies in my stomach, and still is the address I’d rather have than any other zip code in the world. But now, it’s more than that…it is normal. It has all of those everyday, commonplace things that add up but can’t be found in the grocery or hardware store. It is in the streets I know like the back of my hand, the subway map I hardly have to look at, the laugh lines of my friends whose faces I’ve grown quite accustomed to, it’s in the voice of the woman I buy my coffee from each morning without fail, it’s in the fact that every key I’ve carried for a year has changed this month except for my key to Mr. Possibility’s apartment, and it’s in the purse that’s battled through it all.

It’s in the fact that now, I’m out of the starter apartment, and I’m off to live somewhere that doesn’t need to ignite me because I’ve already lit myself up.

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A Royal Reminder of Love

I did not get up early today to watch the wedding of Kate and William. I have not been following all of the blogs, scrolling through pictures, or admiring her beautiful heirloom engagement ring. I haven’t been up to date and I haven’t found myself submerged in Royal Wedding bliss and obsession.

But I’ve found all the hype refreshing.

And while we don’t know more than the glamorized surface level perception of their relationship, it is nice to have trending topics and stories about love. This nearly decade-long courtship that started at college, made its way through breakups and makeups, has now ended in what so many are calling a modern-day, real-life, fairytale. The bride, without titles or royal heritage not only finds the man she wants to spend the rest of her life with, but he happens to be an actual prince. The charming is negotiable.

She may not be Cinderella, but she is living and breathing the story so many little girls grew up reading over and over again, praying and hoping and wishing that someday, their prince would come too. Kate didn’t need rescuing and she’s always projected an independent, classy, sophisticated, and ambitious attitude. When they did split however many years ago, she admitted her sadness but wished him well and sought out on her own accord to pursue her own pursuits. And as things always do in one fashion or another, they worked themselves out, and here she is the new stunning Duchess of Cambridge.

As I went to write this blog, I found myself more interested in Kate herself than the wedding. I thought what it must be like to wake up and realize the vows you’re about to take – not only promising loyalty to a man but to a country and its people. She’s slipping on a new pair of shoes, handmade McQueen and lovely, that carries more than just a hefty price tag and heel. She stepped into a role she may have dreamed of being in, but never really conceptualized until she found herself there.

Go ahead and call me a romantic, but she accepted this part and is beautifully playing it all because of love. All because she met someone who forever changed her life.

Getting married to a non-prince may not carry as much weight and pressure as Kate probably felt today, but perhaps that’s why love is partly so scary. And why so many are quick to advise against marriage than for it – the skeptics are quick to deliver divorce ratings if you dare mention you’re interest in nuptials at some point in your life. They are right, it is a wager: when you agree to become exclusive or to ultimately promise to dedicate your life to someone else, you put a lot on the line. Not only your heart but your identity, your day-to-day choices, and your priorities. And if it doesn’t work out, say in the bittersweet story of Princess Diana, you must rebuild your old life back – though, you’ll never be quite the same again. Every lust and rush takes its toll and while I believe we can all find our footing no matter how severe the shatter, making a commitment and being vulnerable carries great risk.

So why do we do it? Why do we all admire the glowing bride and the gushing groom, rising so early to watch people we don’t know share their vows in front of the world? Why do we stand in front of TV monitors at Dunkin Donuts, blocking the line to sip coffee and watch the bride walk? Why do we admire a woman who is living out the fantasy we’ve all seen ourselves in at some point? Why do we tear up at weddings – royal and promoted on Twitter, with its own special section on People.com – or just the typical ceremony? Why do we buy into the buzz, even when we don’t always buy into love and all that stuff, anyway?

Because love is love. And resist it or not, wonder if you’ll lose who you are or find yourself buried in regret at the end of a relationship’s tenure – love is heavy in our hearts and hopeful in our minds. Seeing love displayed with such splendor in magic makes us remember what it felt like to be naïve and optimistic about the love we surely knew we’d find before we knew what it felt like to lose at the game. It makes us get back some of that faith that fairytales can come true, it can happen to us, if we are among the very young at heart.

If we are among those who would rather believe and be deceived time and time again, then to never believe at all. Because someday, maybe our prince will come and maybe he won’t – but I’d rather kiss dozens of frogs than never kiss anyone at all. I’d rather be scared out of my mind of being crushed than to never have a crush or take a leap of faith and trust someone almost as much as I trust myself.

And though I’m not sure I would sincerely want to be a princess and manage the pressure of possibly leadingEngland or any country– I toast to Kate and her prince, who have reminded us all that love doesn’t have to be legitimately royal to be spectacular. Love itself is royalty – something that should be prized and preserved, and with or without money, makes you richer than any jewel or Cartier bridal headset can.