It seemed like the natural thing to do. I had a new apartment—and, I assumed, a fabulous (Uptown livin,’ Downtown location) New York City life— replete with pots, pans, knives, gas stovetop (gas!) and a lovely little patio. A dinner party would solidify my leap into adulthood. The dinner—my very first, all-important, real gathering of people over the age of 21—would bring me one step closer to becoming a grand hostess (think CZ Guest, Palm Beach).

I got right down to business: the guest list. Right, I had one friend in the tri-state area…

(running out to buy fresh herbs and prosciutto—back in a bit!)

And what about y’all? Do you remember the first “adult” dinner/cocktail party that you gave post-college, in the new apartment, with the newly serious boy/girl friend? Disastrous? Memorable? Were you doing keg-stands at the end of the evening, sipping someone else’s bottle of “Taylor’s 40-year” Port, sweeping up your mother’s fine-bone wedding china? Did the guests clean their plates or pick at your pork roast?

My “first” (Lord, it sounds as if we’re discussing virginity) was characteristically over-the-top and arduous. I served Rainbow Trout stuffed with Portabello mushrooms and prosciutto…

My studio is exactly the size of Granddaddy’s tool shed. He keeps, rather, he kept (sorry, y’all, it’s hard to settle in to the past tense) fish food, standing lawn mowers, a tractor and the cousins hunting rifles in his space, while I’m supposed to carry out a life—eat, sleep, love, write, imagine—in mine. So what do you do when it’s time for a party?

Perfect little summary of this city of mine…

“New York throbs with impatience and aggression, suspicion and paranoia seething just below the surface, the hysteria and panic always latent. Ours is a city of confrontation, the rule of thumb to confront or be confronted. We’re all competing here, for jobs, for money, for space. Competing, in this ecosystem so harsh yet fragile, to get through the day and live our lives and survive to the next. That vibe of hostility is inescapable, like the air and the light.”

I love the sound of sirens. Of course, this demands a suspension of reality— requires that I forget that someone is dying, dead or supremely ill. Back home it used to be the trains that soothed me, reinforced by Mamma’s deep, satisfied sigh, “Did you hear it? Nothin’ puts me to sleep better than the distant echo of a railroad car or the sound of a baby’s shallow breathing.” I agreed with her and then quietly pondered how in the hell she managed to hear anything above Daddy’s raucous midnight snores.

Then, last week, I began to really think about them—the sirens. I hear them more now that my windows are open wide. April, May, June I’ll here and smell everything, the air light with spring, heavy with the sound of new construction, dense with the perfume of downtown’s baking ovens and machines—cake batter, diesel, bread, saw dust, pizza dough all at once. I might shutter them for awhile in the thick of summer but come September, they’ll be open again.

September air.

Five years ago, before I inhabited my little rented corner of downtown Manhattan, what did the man (bc I know he was a man) in my studio apartment smell, hear, taste on that infamous morning?

There was percolating coffee, sure. Morning radio gossip, bad music. And, then what? There wasn’t an errant siren to comfort him (like it would have comforted me while I poured the cream, spooned my sugar) but hundreds. The air didn’t smell like honey-wheat and exhaust, but, instead…? Could you hear the screams, taste the panic in the air? Yeah, I know—September 11th commentaries are ubiquitous, tiresome. But when you break it down to the elemental—the sound, the taste, the smell—it hits you again, somehow it’s fresh.

And, now we have the tapes. We have the desperate coercion of the emergency operators that talk of “staying put,” “wetting towels,” “God bless,” “You can’t breathe? That’s ok because someone’s coming.” Did we need this new assault to our senses? I can honestly say that I don’t know. Free speech, “Freedom of Information Act”—I get that. But, is reliving the horror necessary? Is it cathartic to hear the screams, the “Oh God’s!” the “Bless you’s?”

I’m thinking twice about the sirens in the spring air. I smell the coffee, the yeast, the flowers and take comfort in… nothing.