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The first twenty minutes in Milan proper, I said something only a New Yorker would say: "Milan is...cute."
Oh, what a whirlwind the last few weeks have been. Three trips sandwiched between two hurricanes, two packed bags that never became fully unpacked—and for weeks sat open like a jaw, the insides of a stomach; nearly digested experiences—filled with beach sand, rumpled bathing suits still cold and wet, a bent up straw hat, two Turkish towels, a funeral program, a black dress.
There were still things that I missed about New York Summers: I missed hotel bars, with their democratic door policies, top-shelf liquors and quiet, conversation-friendly rooms; Thursday night walks from the office to anywhere, making stops for ice cream or coffees, parking myself in squares or parks without much forethought; and the 24/7 version of the city that the virus killed, no longer could you order a pizza at 2 AM, or rely on a always-open drugstore. But still, what we were experiencing in New York's soft-opening felt like a step out of the woods.
Carrie Bradshaw once said, "In New York you're always looking for a job, apartment, or a boyfriend." When you have all three, just wait for one to drop.
As a Black woman, assumptions were made about what I was “used to”, and what I should be grateful for, as a result.
I guess as the young people say: I've been sleeping on The Zombies since I was a kid.
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Rest In Peace, Terry
We continued on. Alistair pointed out all the places from his past. Traveling makes my find feel less dense and more elastic. Passing advertisements for companies I've never heard of, street signs in French, and cars I'd never seen before. Its like opening a slow door that never gets closed. I learn, and I do it happily.
So the weeklies these next few weeks are very un-weekly, so while you wait patiently, I thought I'd remind you of all the thrilling posts in my archives.
We wake up to loud music playing at the hotel room next door, a song is ending, and the beginning of "New York, New York" starts. Edward lifts the receiver of our vintage 1960s phone (its a boutique hotel, with a 60s mod theme) and whispers in French. The only thing I can translate him saying is: "We can hear music, 'New York, New York.'" Then much more is said in French, then he hangs up.
"This, Ariel Davis, is the craziest thing you've ever done." Maybe I'd reached my limit, maybe I'd done something too crazy. I think of my idol, George Sands, who whisked Frederick Chopin to Majorca. I think of Max Frisch. Maybe this is just the great literary tradition.
My first memories of Terry are woven together with my first impressions of the city. The possibilities still felt tangible, my slate clean, and hanging out with a theater critic added to the magic.