Flashback Friday: Remember that time we got evacuated?

Remember in my previous entry, I was raving about all the time I had to do things on vacation? Well, then this happened. So today's flashback is about, well, yesterday.

We had a 9am yoga class on the beach, facing the ocean on a sparkling morning where I had nothing but a distant sailboat to focus on as I balanced in my tree pose. Then we picked up breakfast and coffee at our favorite market (which is conveniently on the corner of our beach rental house) and ate and drank on the porch, watching the clouds wind themselves over what had been a sunny morning. We changed for the beach, knowing a storm was on the way that evening, ready to wrap ourselves in blankets on the sand. It was all beautiful.

I don't remember how or when the hurricane panic set in. It feels like one minute everyone was fine, and the next, everyone's phones were ringing and the lifeguards had changed the flags and all the locals were talking about what time to leave. We left the beach and decided to walk around the shops a bit. We ran into my first grade teacher; I bought a sweatshirt. Everyone tried on shoes. We bought matching sunglasses. We knew our vacation would likely be cut short; we just didn't know by how long.

And the whole time, a quiet doom was seeping into us. The Beach Haven gas station had two long lines of cars wrapped around the block, waiting to fill up so they could leave the island. (By 6pm last night, it had run out of gas.) Many conversations ensued about what to do (bus? train? drive? but could we get gas? would it take hours to get off the island, with its one bridge on and off?). We called a house meeting, which was awesome and felt like an episode of The Real World.

We packed up our rental in record time and just...left. It was already stormy (not Irene-related) and that just added to the heightened sense of panic, making us all feel like the hurricane was nipping at our heels and would be here any second. About 20 minutes off the island, the skies cleared. No one was talking about the hurricane. Things felt normal. The hives I'd grown on my neck disappeared.

Today, of course, is glorious. It would have been a perfect beach day.

Stay safe, friends.

Wimbledon every morning

My beach rental faces the island's busiest tennis courts. Each morning one of us begins the day by putting on the coffee and putting out the porch seat cushions, sipping contemplatively as she decides who to root for in each match and what an appropriate time is to wake everyone up to get the day's adventures started. And they are adventures. Yesterday we were on the beach, of course -- a glorious morning. I stretched out on a towel on the sand, and after some time began wondering why the kids next to me were digging their hole so aggressively -- the sand was shifting under me, like the earth was giving me a rough massage. I sat up to find out the source, when E. announced "Um, that's an earthquake." And so it was. (For the record, half of the people on the beach seemed entirely unconcerned; the other half, me included, kept a close eye on the tide to watch for any receding water. Not that we had anywhere to run to...).

It's only Wednesday, and I'm here until Saturday, and each morning I have to remind myself that there is time to do everything and nothing; time to read (Freedom, for the record, which I am reluctantly enjoying), time to write, time to sleep, time to visit all the places that formed me, time to play round after round of Apples to Apples with my friends.

For someone who thinks there's never enough time, this is the height of indulgence.

P.S. Those are jellyfish in this picture. They don't sting, but on days when the water is warm, you can see them rising and falling in the waves, and they litter the drift line like some sort of jellyfish graveyard. They glimmer in the sunlight. I hate them but they are incredibly beautiful, and I find myself rooting on the kids who throw them back into the ocean; a losing but honorable battle.

A kindred month

(Is that even a thing?) I am not a yoga evangelist necessarily, but I do love taking a class 1-2 times per week, and how (at a minimum) it's fixed my hamstring/sciatica issues and super-improved my lower back pain (and no, I am not an old lady, why are you looking at me like that?), and, too, it, along with reiki (my amazing practitioner is here, please do yourself a favor and go see her), has improved my life in ways that are hard to explain.

That is why it pains me to admit that sometimes I fail at yoga.

Earlier this week I was in class with my favorite teacher. She announced we'd be focusing on feet. Well, ouch. I think I must keep a lot of tension in my feet, which I suppose is better than keeping it elsewhere? Anyhow, we did lots of new, foot-focused things. It became clear early on that my feet were having none of it. An all-out rejection of the poses, in fact. I stumbled and nearly fell. (More than once.) My foot began cramping up. I got a weird ache in my left knee, and my right ankle. I flat-out couldn't do several of the poses.

I am human. I don't like not being good at things, especially things I am normally okay at. But it felt like one of those days where I couldn't get my head in the game. I left class feeling the opposite of how I normally feel after yoga.

It was disconcerting.

That scattered, dreamy feeling is still with me today -- which, let's face it, isn't unusual. I have learned over the past few years to accept my spaciness, the need I often have for something or someone to ground me back here to the dirt, the cement, the falling leaves. I like the push and pull between earth and sky; how I am usually balancing on a wire between the two. I like the view from here. I like the people that catch me on either side, and I'm grateful for them.

This morning, in my dress and cardie and sandals, a gust of wind scattered some leaves off trees and I realized mid-August is also on a wire, bleeding thunderstorms and heat waves one week, and cool rain and shadows the next. And for the first time, maybe, I respected her a little more than usual.

Image via lululemonathletic

And now Ray LaMontagne is stuck in my head.

This is kind of true! I mean, it's a bit of a downer, but I mostly agree with the sentiment. Summer is over, it says, by the 4th of July; "the plans you made have either fallen through or have been executed half-heartedly and with regret. The failures of the season have already been written in the Book of Life underneath all the failures of summers past."

The timeline of summer has shifted over the years. As a kid, of course, it was decided by school, two bookends that determined when you were free and when you weren't. As a teen, summer started even earlier -- Memorial Day weekend to Labor Day weekend if you worked in a resort town like me, or early May to mid August if you're in college, no matter the weather, no matter how many finals you still had to take. Now, summer is whenever you can get your hands on it.

Already, the official beginning of summer -- June -- feels like a distant memory, clouded by the heat and weight that was July. It's true the sunlight feels different now than it did eight weeks ago; it's true I'm still waiting for a tan that will likely never come, and I've forgotten to buy that new pair of flip-flops I wanted. Unopened bottles of sunblock are taking up space in my bathroom. I haven't yet been in the ocean.

But!

I will be on vacation in 1.5 weeks, finally; a sure-to-be blissful week in a beach house with some dear friends. The island might be half empty (full?), and it will probably feel like we're closing some sort of chapter there, because August always does (in that same way Sundays always do), even as it crawls forward like a lazy spider. So I'm not done with summer yet.

Sing it, Ray.

August gardens

Not normally one for gardens, I have a growing love for my parents' backyard this summer. Over the past few years my mom has developed a green thumb, and on any given summer day she is out back picking her fresh tomatoes and strawberries, pulling leaves of basil and sprigs of rosemary to add to her dinner, watering the pink and red flowers that dot the horizon in their hanging pots. On weekends my dad mows the lawn and fixes the windowboxes out front; if I'm home visiting, he'll wash and clean my car for me, without asking. (A nice surprise if you can get it.) The dogs lounge, then roll around in the freshly-cut grass, stretching out their backs and shaking off the clippings. Sometimes it feels like an episode of The Wonder Years, old-timey and idyllic, without all the bad men's shorts.

But back to the garden. Here in the foreground are real live pumpkin patches, two kinds, and one trails back in a curve to my favorite plant of all, the butterfly bush. This whole section of the backyard was an unexpected garden -- the bay winds blew some stray seeds there, and nature did its thing. It is dangerously close to overtaking the lower deck (you can see a swath of the deck in the bottom right; yes, it's red, or "country red" as my parents like to say.). I cannot wait for fall to see how many pumpkins appear, though I'll mourn the missing butterflies.

And here is the strawberry plant -- in full and close up. My niece tends to steal all of the ripe ones (we can all take a lesson from her, I think -- seize what you want before it's gone) but she left a few behind, and I popped one in my mouth, sweet as candy and redder than the petals that bloom beside it.

Gardening is a lot of work; I am not always patient. When it hasn't rained for days one must step in; as quickly as new leaves and petals and fruits come forth, other ones die and must be picked. Then there are the spiders that build forts over some of the plants, especially at night; there is always a risk of getting caught in a sticky silver web when you try to coax guests outside for some midnight margaritas on the deck. There are bees.

But I think it is all worth it. Especially the midnight margaritas.

Bar reflections

I am in love with this article, in which a bartender talks about vodka and first dates and chardonnay and what it all means. You could say I love bars. But what that really means is probably something different than what most people think. I don't love "Let's find a crowded, no-atmosphere bar that's playing Britney Spears and do shots and try to score" kinds of bars. Rather, I love the stories happening within bars; I love the dark wood, the candlelight, the way women slip off their slingback heels under a bar stool to stretch out their feet when they think no one is looking. I love how people can be their best or worst selves there, depending on the evening, and the company. Most years, on the night of my birthday when I've invited friends out for a drink, I try to be the first person there, so I can order something, sip it slowly, watch the people around me, and mark my luck at seeing another year pass.

Too, I love ordering a drink, and trying to guess what it makes the bartender assume about me. I am a different person when I order a dirty martini (sassy) than I am when I order a Sam Adams seasonal (conversational, casual), or a prosecco (celebratory), or a gin and tonic (nostalgic for my family). When I ask for a Tanqueray, I'm asserting something about myself; I'm letting you know what you're in for.

I am a different breed than the lady in this article, but I am trying to experiment the way she seems to -- namely, by trying to get into bourbon. Tips are appreciated, for me (on what to try) and for whatever bartender you frequent (when you order).

Image via

Flashback Friday: Sylvia Plath

A serious question: is there a female college student in the world who can survive without owning a copy of The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath?

I am willing to wager that the majority of rooms in the T/W dorms at The College of New Jersey 10-15 years ago housed at least one copy. There's just something so college about Sylvia; kind of like, I don't know, Guster and frat parties and rolls of quarters. I wonder if they include it on the checklist of things to bring for incoming freshman.

The beauty about The Collected Poems is that even though I think of it in conjunction with college, I still get satisfaction from it today. I don't get the chance to read a lot of poetry anymore, but there are nights when I hunker down with it, flip to my many dog-eared pages, and read aloud my favorites. (I do this with Margaret Atwood and Mary Oliver and WH Auden, too.)

Each of my sisters also own copies, and last year when my Girls Write Now mentee went off to college I bought her one, because it just feels like a rite of passage. And yes, this may be my nostalgia talking, but there's something special about Sylvia and her relationship with 18 year old girls (women?). She just speaks to us.

Snow in July

These things are all related:

• Yesterday I walked my normal route to work, down Greene Street between Houston and Prince, only it was blocked off to traffic as film crews set up a shot. I saw a man hanging Christmas ornaments from a storefront, positioning a red velvet bow just so.
• Last night I had a sudden pang for winter, my favorite season; summer is only halfway through and already I'm itching to dig out my sweaters.
• Today Greene Street was back to normal, except for a 4-foot stretch of snow, melting on the curb. A man in front of me did a double-take, then stopped to take pictures.

New York: it really is the place where dreams come true.

Flashback Friday: Looking East

I am stealing this trope from someone, but I am hoping he doesn’t mind. Each Friday, I’m going to post a Flashback – a book, song, movie, whatever – because, let’s face it, I’m a Cancer and we practically tattoo our nostalgia on our foreheads. Today’s Flashback Friday: Jackson Browne.

I had a cool boss when I worked at my favorite job on Long Beach Island, and she introduced me to Jackson Browne. Looking East played in at least one of the stores each day, so when I would make tee shirt drop-offs or pick up a friend for our break, he'd be there, coming out of the seven-disc player, muffled by hooded sweatshirts. I got to know the CD well. One night on a summer about 14 years ago, my boss, a new mom and barely 30 years old, got into a car accident she didn’t survive, and I stood in a blacktop church parking lot on the bay during her funeral, tears mingling with sweat, singing this song in my head, over and over.

I didn’t mean for this to be sad; I just think of her often, and so I think of Jackson Browne often. Her death was really the first one I had experienced (lucky for me, considering I was in my late teens) and those kinds of things usually carve new synapses into your brain, leaving you permanently marked.

Anyway, the funny thing I just learned about this song and this album is that it was released in the mid-90s. This whole time, I thought it was from much earlier than that, like most of the music we listened to in those stores. The more you know!

Endings

What a weird, sad week.

I am so over crying in front of a screen.

Whatever it's like, it's here: summer.

I bit into a fresh blueberry and it tasted like earth, like dirt, like hot sun and dry fields where farmers wore gloves and wiped rolling tears of sweat from their collarbones and somewhere, a great American novelist was watching, observing, getting ready to write it all down. All this from a lone, navy, pungent blueberry. I grew up on a beach, but the sun today is making me think of an imagined farmland. It's land I've never really seen; the middle of America, except for a brief week in St. Louis and a weekend in Chicago and a layover in Detroit, is a mystery to me. I don't know the ways people live out there, but I suppose it's much like here, except without the cement walls weighing them down.

Or maybe it's more like northern California, all wineries and salt-of-the-earth types, which is probably not true but just what I've dreamed up after two vacation stints in San Francisco and Napa/Sonoma.

Whatever it's like, it's here: summer. I spent the weekend before last on a field on the bay watching music on three different stages, dirt blowing into our eyes, caking our cheekbones and ears, wondering when I lost some ambitions, but feeling my bones loosen up with the idea, with the heat.

Then I spent the holiday weekend here in New York (the first time I hadn't spent it on a beach somewhere), holding hands and wondering when I became okay with new traditions, because I am okay with new traditions.

Nurturing creativity

I had a life-changing question hit me one day in my AP English class during my senior year of high school: what if I was not, or never would be, an “ideas person?” My oldest friend L. is one of those Tracy Flick types of girls (and I say that with love, truly -- I think girls should strive to be like that) who raised her hand constantly with idea after idea – creative bursts that popped up like fireworks. I, contrastingly, was someone who was used to stewing on things for a while – days, weeks – before an idea or a solution to a problem would come to me. And even then, it would only be one, and usually mediocre. So I sat there that spring day of senior year, stumped at how L. managed to think of things, and so quickly!, and vowed: I would become an “ideas person.” It became a life goal.

I came across this article from The Atlantic today. It struck a chord. Because here’s the dirty little secret about creativity, I’ve found: you can transform yourself into an ideas person, a creative thinker, into someone who sees the world just a smidge differently than everyone else, if you work at it. Because it’s mostly about consciousness.

Seems counterintuitive, no? That in order to become more creative you have to work harder at it? Because isn’t creativity something inherent, something we either have or don’t have? Well, I vote no. I think creativity lives in a lot more people than we think; and I like what The Atlantic piece says about finding ways to nurture it, even in corporate environments.

I nurture my creativity as often as I can – consciously or not. When I unplug and take a yoga class or go for a run on the water, that’s nurturing my creativity. When I see a movie I didn’t think I wanted to see, that’s nurturing my creativity. When I cook a new meal, tell a new joke, ask a stranger a question, that’s nurturing my creativity.

What do you do to nurture yours?

During the heat wave last week (yes, I consider 90 degrees a heat wave, what of it?) I came home and found K. reading The Baby-sitters Club Super Special #7, Snowbound! (with the exclamation point, natch). Because what better time to read about a bunch of baby-sitters stuck in a snowstorm than a sweltering, humid Memorial Day weekend?

It stuck in my mind only because I hadn't re-read any of my fave BSCs recently, and I missed them, the way you miss your favorite couch and quilt when you have a cold. Today opened up gloriously for me after a great few weekends full of that perfect combination of busy-ness and fun, and I walked home in the late morning sunlight, thinking about my upcoming summer and beach house plans and boating trips and birthdays. Which, of course, got me thinking about Sunset Island.

I have yet to meet anyone else who read the Sunset Island books. (In real life, I mean. The lady behind the Dairi Burger has clearly read them.) They're the closest books I've ever found to my own teenage experience, particularly when it comes to setting -- the island, the work/fun balance, the class differences. So I read them over and over, remembering both my own island history and who I was when I first read them, so it's all kind of meta.

Anyway, summer! I have some exciting things lined up for the season, including some great books on deck. What about you?

On gratitude

Yesterday evening a man sitting on a stoop in SoHo tossed pink flowers my way as I walked past him. I don’t know his intentions, but I liked it, the way they showered over my shoulders and landed on the tops of my Toms. It felt like a commercial. It felt like he was congratulating me for something I hadn't yet done for him. I think the most beautiful thing you can do for a person is throw something gorgeous their way when they least expect it, whether it’s soft pink petals or a compliment or a slice of your gratitude. I try to do that, but it can be hard – sometimes I’m stifled, blocked by an invisible wall of restraint that I have to force myself through. Other times, though, it’s the simplest, breeziest thing in the world.

Today is one of those glorious spring days that helps justify the rainy ones. I woke up early and went for a run on the water (the Hudson, but there were moments I could have sworn I was on the beach, on the strip of road between the bay and the Atlantic); if only every run, every morning, could be like this.

Image via

The universe speaks

In college, my older sister did something against our school’s regulations. I think it involved a hot plate. It definitely involved a hearing of some sort, where a few people had to vote on whether she would be kicked out of campus housing. It was all highly dramatic.

I remember sitting in the hallway outside the room of the hearing, waiting for the results like it was some kind of trial. Even my parents were there! It’s all so silly in retrospect. Anyway, as we were waiting there, Tori Amos came on the radio. This is notable for several reasons, the most important one being that Tori never comes on the radio. As Winter played, the hearing concluded. The results? My sister was allowed to stay in her dorm.

We weren’t surprised. See, we knew that hearing a Tori song in that moment meant that everything would be okay. (Go with me here. I was, like, 19.)

But the funny thing is? I still believe this. When I unexpectedly hear a Tori song in a public place, it means good luck is on its way. I firmly believe in this theory, and it’s been tested many times. It’s like the universe’s secret gift to me.

I had Pandora on today, and while I was working diligently on an important piece of work, I also had something bothersome taking up a lot of my head space. And wouldn’t you know it? Tear in Your Hand came on – even though I didn’t have my Tori Amos station on. (Actually, I had what's kind of my opposite-of-Tori station on.)

Listen, I like science, too. I get probability. My Pandora surely has gleaned enough info from my listening habits to know that I will thumbs-up any and all Tori they throw my way. And yet it’s fun to believe in the magic of the universe sometimes, too. So thanks, universe.

Meanwhile, I have been a bad blogger. It’s been a busy month!

A love poem

I kind of hate the month of April, which is mean to say for a few reasons. (Sorry to my brother, who celebrates his birthday this month, and my brand new nephew, just born last night!) I'm just not a spring type of gal, what with the thick air and rain boots and wildly inconsistent temperatures. Also, flowers. What are those about? (Okay, just kidding about that last part. Look at those flowers I found in London last week! Breathtaking. Of course, they're like a month ahead of us, season-wise, so don't get any ideas, East Coasters.) But there is one thing I adore about April. It's National Poetry Month.

I love, love, love poetry.

One day in college I was assigned "Spring Azures" by Mary Oliver. It was fall, and I was curled up on a couch plowing through my work with russet-colored leaves twirling around the windowsill and witches and spiders adorning my walls (it was Halloween, obvs) and I opened up that Oliver poem and read it out loud (it's what I do with poetry) and I started crying, completely unexpectedly. (I just remembered I talked about that here. Geez, Morg. Diversify.) It remains my favorite poem of all time.

Second place, though, is vastly different from Oliver in both theme and style: WH Auden's "Musee des Beaux Arts." The poem was inspired by Brueghel's "Fall of Icarus" but I don't even think you need to see that painting to get it; I think you just need to pause over those final five lines and let them seduce you; linger over them for a while and think about humanity. I don't even care if that sounds pretentious. It's what you need to do.

One year I was leading the poetry workshop for Girls Write Now and we were teaching sestinas and villanelles and I found myself falling in love with "One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop and Sylvia Plath's "Mad Girl's Love Song," and so many others, so many unexpected others, and spent months afterwards starting and stopping my own until I finally landed on one I was okay with. There's something really freeing in all that structure.

There are others who've made big dents in me. Margaret Atwood. Seamus Heaney. Dorothy Parker. Edna St Vincent Millay. Langston Hughes. My point is, poetry is super. If you're not a reader of it, why not try? April is the perfect month, after all.

Night swimming

I spent summers working at the best store on Long Beach Island (three stores actually, all selling the same merchandise within a two-block span of each other, which sounds indulgent now but actually worked back in the heyday of the mid-to-late 90s), and there are certain albums that, when I hear them unexpectedly, stop me in my tracks and bring me back to warm summer mornings, the smell of the beach lingering in the wind, the store empty and the sun shining. Those were my favorite moments in the store, when the island hadn't yet awoken and it was just me, loading up the seven-disc player and refolding tee shirts, waiting.

Just now, an old 10,000 Maniacs song came on the Adult Alternative music channel (fodder for another post, but you know you're old when your favorite music channel is Adult Alternative), followed by REM's Night Swimming, and I died.

I set a high writing goal for myself this weekend, and I almost always listen to background music while I write, and those two songs just brought me back into my character's head in a new way like whoa. So it got me thinking about the music I've been listening to for this particular manuscript, which may seem odd but, if you know me, is actually quite perfect: 10,000 Maniacs Unplugged (probably one of my top 5 albums of all time), Taylor Swift's Speak Now (I know, I know, but it's perfect for this character), David Gray's Draw the Line, and Mumford & Sons' Sigh No More. What's interesting this time around is that this WIP doesn't take place on the beach (my first one did), which means that I'm trying to actually stay away from my versions of beach music (which includes Indigo Girls, James Taylor, Carole King).

I know everyone has those bands that take them back to key moments in life. And I don't think I will every be able to listen to Natalie Merchant without thinking of my favorite summer job, or Taylor Swift without remembering being in Hoboken's Panera while I cracked open a scene I hadn't expected to write.

A discovery of awesomeness

Today, in things I can't get enough of: A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness. Listen, I know I have a thing for witches. I love the history of witchcraft, including the origins of the word ("wise woman") and its obvious and buried feminist connections. In college, a professor began delivering an annual lecture series every Halloween - excuse me, Samhain - about the history of witchcraft, and I was obsessed. I love Wicked (the book and the musical). If I had a dog, I'd name her Elphaba. And sometimes, just sometimes, I hold out my hands and consider carefully the amount of power, real or imagined, they hold, and hope to see shooting sparks of energy dance around my fingertips.

I started A Discovery of Witches last week and it's one of those books that has made me fall utterly in love with reading. (I mean, it's kind of like preaching to the choir, but still.) There are times where the language is perhaps a bit redundant or unfresh, but it's a classic example of a story where the plot and characters are so inventive and engaging that the book's flaws don't matter.

I don't care about vampires, but I care very much about witches, and together, they just work in this book. Why on earth I am sitting here blogging instead of going back to my Kindle is beyond me.

A Siren song

Let's talk about sirens for a moment. Here is what they mean to me:

• Margaret Atwood. My favorite poem of Peggy's is Siren Song (Alas/it is a boring song/but it works every time)
• College. I worked on the literary magazine called The Siren. I think fondly of it often.
• John William Waterhouse. Which, again, makes me think of college.
• Mythology. Specifically, Greek; the three bird-women who lured sailors with irresistible songs, until they came too close to the coast and wrecked their ships. (How I love these women!)
• The Odyssey, Homer, etc., etc., etc.
• Religion and history, and the trends in each. Did you know that belief in literal Sirens was discouraged by the early Christians, though symbols of them were still often used to represent the dangerous temptations of women? But, get this: by the 17th century, some Jesuits began reasserting their literal existence. They were posited to be everything from singers with horrible morals to Sicilian prostitutes. These poor ladies, real or imagined, just couldn't win.
• The amazing way language connects us, and the history of linguistics. For example: in Spanish, French, Italian, Polish, Romanian and Portuguese, the word for mermaid is Sirena, Sirène, Sirena, Syrena, Sirenă and Sereia, respectively.

Why is this important? Well, K. came back from a trip to Santa Fe, NM and brought me something I fully adore.

It's this little matchbox with a picture of a mermaid on it, all bright blues and pink glitter and orange binding. La Sirena is stamped, almost like an afterthought, below the depicted waves. Inside the matchbox aren't matches. Instead, it's a "magic matchbox shrine," holding worry dolls from Guatemala, healing dirt from New Mexico, turquoise for protection, and an Anasazi bean for purity and wisdom.

There's something about the Southwest that brings me peace. When I was in Sedona, despite being landlocked, I didn't feel breathless and trapped the way I often do in landlocked places (like Quito, Ecuador, where I felt like something was missing the whole time. Turns out that "something" was a body of water.). I carry my La Sirena magic matchbox with me, and it reminds me how much bigger we all are than just the sum of our parts.

Passport worries

One winter a few years ago (who can keep track anymore, really) I took my semi-annual jaunt to London (my second city, in a sense) and then booked a Chunnel to Paris for a long weekend with some best friends. It had been my first time in Paris since the first time, which in turn had been during my worth-every-cliche backpacking trip post-college-graduation in the summer of 2001. (Oh, what a different world it was then!) Paris is really something else. I'm reading a GWN colleague's accounts of her January spent there (as well as in London -- I suppose those two cities really are the perfect pair when one is looking for a fancy, yet gritty and completely unforgettable, tryst in Europe) and the memories are just flooding into the corners of my swirled brain like that time the bay invaded our house when I was in eighth grade. My first time in France in 2001 was transformative; I remember sitting in a cafe in Avignon (such an amazing city), conversing with some locals, and having it strike me without a shred of doubt: I could live here. I could live in this foreign city halfway across the world from the tiny, sleepy town I was raised and it would all be okay -- the whole world could be mine. Which is a necessary, if not entirely unoriginal, concept that every young person should experience at some point.

And then Paris...Paris! That city is like everything you've ever heard about it and then some. My second trip there was nearly as magical as the first, despite my needing to sit down for hot tea every few hours due to some nasty cold I had been battling (but if one is going to suffer from a chest cold, there's really no better place to do it than along the Champs-Elysee, when the holiday lights are still looped around the trees and people are wearing slate gray scarves and capes and Carla Gugino passes by you, speaking lovely French, and you feel that perfect blend of American and global citizen, whatever that means.

Then, of course, I fell in love with London (not to mention in London) a few years later, when my job required me to be there fairly often; my life almost took a permanent detour there, and it felt like all signs were leading me to a move. There are still neighborhoods in that city, and the way the shadows fall in them during the late afternoons, when I am so overwhelmed with memories that I can't remember what year it is, who I'm supposed to be meeting, and whether I even needed a passport to get there. In a way, I often feel more at home in London than I do in New York.

I too have daydreams of skipping out of town for a few weeks or months and taking up a little studio in the 18th arrondissement, or a flat in the West End , to just immerse myself back into the language, the people, the world, and fling caution to the wind. No matter how modern the world gets, or how quickly we transform into our future selves, there's still something that feels so early-20th-century American about leaving New York behind to find some space in the best of Europe.

I'm off to London again next month for a dear friend's wedding (the second English wedding I'm attending in less than a year's time), and I'm getting all swoony and reminiscent as I book my flights. Um, and a little nervous, since my passport expired and it's currently somewhere in the renewal process, with me crossing my fingers that it gets here in time.