I left New York August 5th under the most extreme circumstances; having moved apartments just two days prior from Soho to New Jersey to the East Village. This all because weekend moves are prohibited by our new pain-in-the-ass property management, an unfortunate fact since our other pain-in-the-ass property manager was a huge reason we moved from Soho. The move seemed cursed from start to finish, with no trucks, no movers since the whole of New York city was also moving that same weekend. But, with the help of indispensable friends and family, we crammed my most precious possessions into the most expensive 100 square feet you'll ever see. I barely had time to settle in but those three glorious nights spent in my unusually firm but wonderfully free new bed (gift from Papi) were enough to keep me looking forward to my return.
The day I quit New York I literally accomplished a million things with visits to the tailor, salon, gym, 30 emails sent, bills paid, appointments scheduled, deadlines complete and two closets perfectly organized according to color and style. By the time I collapsed into a taxi I could not wait to spend 6+ hours crammed into coach with small child kicking the back of my chair and Jehovah's Witness telling me about the end of the world beside me. Not a great conversation to have while on an airplane. It seemed this hectic state was the condition of my life in New York. Under deadline or not, moving or not-I was constantly running from meetings to drinks or dinner, to spin class, to the market or to the post. Always 15 minutes late (which I will confess is hereditary not necessarily a New York thing although it doesn't help) always in a slightly panicked state, perpetually tired and constantly connected via Blackberry.
But, for now, I am in blissful asylum from the rat race, sitting poolside under umbrella on the most beautiful island in the world with nothing to do but go for long runs, muse, make love, play photographer, swim in the Mediterranean, sip wine and consume exorbitant amounts of gelato. All that noise is a distant memory which comes to me only in the form of an occasional flashback. One hits me suddenly as we nap like kittens intertwined on one lounge chair. Needing comfort I say to him, "this isn't real life you know." “What is real life?” he replies. “Real life is what you make it.” And then he kissed me.
