I am moving to New York in less than two weeks. I went there this weekend to find an apartment and somehow, a can-do attitude cultivated by too many viewings of "The Sound of Music" actually defeated the New York Real Estate Monster and landed me in a cozy new home somewhere between the Village and Chelsea and a Pinkberry. This is exciting and scary and awesome and horrible and like I said, hives. So I spent a lot of time reading, partially because you can do that on the subway, as Miss Labrie so eloquently reminds us, and partially because it's nice to think of other people when thinking of yourself makes you want to do cartwheels and vomit simultaneously.
Books I Read in New York, In Order of Importance:
Travels With Charley by John Steinbeck
The Romantics by Galt Niederhoffer
The Big Rewind by Nathan Rabin
This is a good time to be reading a book that reminds us, "Once a journey is designed, equipped, and put in process, a new factor enters and takes over. A trip, a safari, an exploration, is an entity, different from all other journeys. It has personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. Tour masters, schedules, reservations, brass-bound and inevitable, dash themselves to wreckage on the personality of the trip. Only when this is recognized can the blown-in-the-glass bum relax and go along with it."
I'm certainly not a blown-in-the-glass bum but I'm going to do my best impression as my world collapses and rebuilds itself over the next few weeks.
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