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.
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I had grand plans after writing about Greece and Italy.
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The first twenty minutes in Milan proper, I said something only a New Yorker would say: "Milan is...cute."
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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.
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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.
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Finally, we have a home.
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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.
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