I’m afraid to move from

New York City.

Three little words. They cite nothing more than geographical location (as opposed to the ever-important, “I love you”), and yet they invoke awe, envy, disgust, cynicism and wonderment like nothing else. NO ONE harbors neutral feelings about the Big Apple. I’m addicted to this knee-jerk reaction. It all began when I studied in Buenos Aires and then moved to Rome only to extend my exotic city tour to Palma de Mallorca and then to Sevilla. Automatic respect—“street cred,” if you’ll allow a white girl from the South to use such an expression—comes w. these legendary cities. I’m hooked.

There’s that. And, too, there are nights out on the town w. photography exhibitions and dinner of tempura-fried haricot verts and cabrales steak salad (last night) or champagne and Italian men at “Da Silvano” (2 nights ago) or dancing until dawn at “Cain” and “Marquee” (tonight). Everything I’ve cited is immediate gratification for the senses.

I taste it.
I drink it.
I watch their eyes widen when I say it.
“New York City.”

So, what would I do if I were in Birmingham, Alabama or Duluth, Georgia? Maybe I’d try a little harder because there wasn’t a name to sustain me. Perhaps I’d write more (and imbibe less) if I were further removed from the sins of Dante’s seven circles of hell. Or, maybe I’d just be bored.
I’m biting my lip. I just looked away from the screen. I can’t believe that I’m considering a life elsewhere.

My hair still smells of chicory and pulled pork and my tongue is thick w. vowels and southernisms but I’m FINALLY back in the city–settled in my little apartment in SoHo! Allow me an hour or so to unpack and then’ll I’ll write a post…

“Almost twenty-six, Belle,” my cousin intoned, downing the last of his Busch beer. He looked out over the stone terrace, to the hills of Vestavia and let out a long, hollow belch. “When are you gonna pop out a few babies for the family to enjoy?”

Back down South for a long weekend… I’ve crossed the Mason-Dixon and, once again, been relegated to the status of a walking uterus.

Back to the Big Apple on Tuesday…

It’s Dolce & Gabbana and black and slides over the right bits, conceals the rest. The breasts, the taut belly, the thick ass—the dress makes a promise that I’m more than happy not to keep. But, this is fine. This is written explicitly in my contract. I’m to be a young face, a ready laugh, a woman with a flute of champagne always in hand. Nothing more. THE BOLD SENTENCES (page four) of the staff handbook are meant to scare.

NO PROLONGED CONVERSATIONS

NO GRATUITIOUS FLIRTING

NO EXITING THE EVENT W GUEST/S

INAPPROPRIATE HOSTESSES WILL BE DISMISSED AFTER ______ EVENT

I’m the mystery girl—the paid mystery girl—at the party. The corporate sponsors are worried—the event lacks something. They form a pin-striped huddle and discuss, rubbing their fingers together like drunk Frenchmen on the terrace of the L’Avenue, trying to pinpoint the je ne sais quoi that might be missing.

Aha! Women! Decolletage! Perfumed wrists! Silky skin and stilettos! A sweet voice that will laugh and murmur and make you feel wanted again…

They plant me by the bar or the buffet or the stage. No one knows who I am or why I’m at the MoMa exhibit or the Botanical Garden. The buzz begins. The women in PR and the men at hedge funds whisper behind cocktail glasses and alligator clutches.

This all suits me just fine—as does the pay. Sting’s gig tonight. Maybe he’ll leave me and the other girls a handsome tip. I’ll adjust my dress just so, do the smoky eyes, twist my hair into a blonde chignon… a little piece of magic weaving in and out of the guests, catching their gaze just long enough and then out the door…

Every little thing she does is magic
Every she do just turns me on…

Static.

Circular.

Awaiting clearance.

I’m in a holding pattern.

There are worse things, trust me, I know. Long, leisurely mornings w. coffee and the Times, noontime walks around Gramercy, Juilliard concerts in late afternoon, dinner and a bottle of Cabernet w. the neighbors on my terrace. I’m enjoying the details of fall in the city that most New Yorkers are too busy to notice. Halloween Day I was able to stroll around the city—“un flaneur” the French would call me—with no destination in mind. My sole purpose was to take in the costumes, the smells, collect autumn leaves (the virgin leaves—the ones yet to be trampled by excited, sugar-crazed eight year-olds)…

But, I’m ready for the next challenge. I want this period of wait to be over, to hear the good and the bad news and then move on w. my life. Make your decision—swift and decisive!—and let’s move forward. This plane needs to land at La Guardia so I can check all that baggage and make a new life for myself in the city.