je voudrais te dire d'un amour casse
New Orleans was the closest thing I have had to a tropical vacation. Also, it was the first trip I have ever taken while being so completely poor. Even in Europe, I'd been able to save money beforehand so that I could do things like go to Pamplona on a whim or haggle for scarves at the outdoor market. This time, I was filching apples and bagels from my cousins' hotel in order to be able to eat during the day. No souvenirs, except for a few stray strands of beads that a man gave me when I wouldn't flash my breasts at him. It is embarrassing and humbling to not even be able to pay for one's basics, to scramble for rent every fifteenth of the month, fret about groceries, live or die according to the numbers in my checking account. I haven't bought myself new clothes in six months, let alone a CD or a movie ticket or a hot chocolate on a rainy day. This is teaching me about steel, I suppose, and self-sufficiency, but I can't help but miss living off of a scholarship and sleeping until noon every day.
What I did get were the Mississippi River by twilight, drunken nights tumbling along Bourbon and Magazine Streets, menus in French, window shopping in boutiques, and a sweat I haven't known since Madrid. I got to see one of my dearest friends from last summer and (since the main purpose of the visit was to attend my cousin Sarah's graduation from Tulane) hang out with lovely and generous relatives. All is not lost. This is building character, right? This is the part where I learn the meaning of important things in life and realize how I can survive being poor, isn't it? And life rushes me along anyway. I'm going to be writing a 4,000-word (possibly cover!) feature for either the summer or fall issue of the magazine, which is a huge honor and a thrill. My first venture into ad copy writing was a success, and I recently had the best job interview of my life (as for whether I get said job, that's to be determined). As soon as I got back to the city, Brennan came up for one of her little visits, and we took in the Basquiat exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum. It's nice to be reminded that words are still art, considering as I've been living with musicians lately. My favorite paintings were all done in the year of my birth, when he was the age I am now. Of my recent celebrity sightings, the one that made me almost pass out was David Byrne. He has silver, spiky hair, flawless skin, and a girlfriend who is actually the same age as him.
Last weekend before leaving town, I had a last-ditch-this-isn't-going-to-work-out date with someone I had been seeing on and off. It was horrible. I bailed, went to the subway station and waited for my train to come when a man came up and started asking me for directions. From his particular accented, broken English, I guessed that he spoke French, and we started talking.
"What's a pretty girl like you doing sitting alone in a subway on a Friday night in her best clothes?" he asked me.
I mentioned I'd had a date. "It ended early," he said. "Must have been a bad date."
The next thing I knew, we were sitting in a trendy Lower East Side bar and I was telling him the whole history of my on-and-off relationship in imperfect but passable French. His name was Julien, a photographer from Paris on holiday in New York. I recommended vantage points and neighborhoods ripe to have their portraits made (my current love is the Cloisters). He sent me off into the night again, this time renewed and hopeful. To quote Kimba, "even your bad dates are good ones." Almost nine months in, I have a New York that I love and that loves me in return, friends and a house and enough money to get me through the week, red hair and a book and a broken love story to tell to a new friend over a glass of champagne.