A few months ago a dear old friend from Texas (from middle school or some such long-past time), Mairi-Jane, messaged me to say that she'd be coming to New York for the weekend and was I in? Yes. Yes, yes, I said.
Mairi-Jane and I have the sort of conversations that everyone should have (I think, at least). Which is to say, good and far-reaching and unapologetic and occasionally revelatory.
Our mission for the weekend was mostly that of any vacation: lots of food, lots of wandering, and the occasional necessary purchase--velvet skirts + red lipstick.
We drank lattes (for me), tea (for her), tried not to think too much about the most recent men and the still-soft-heartache, showed each other our favorite music videos on youtube, drank margaritas on the Lower East Side, ate pesto in the West Village, explored Central Park, and when Sunday night came round far too fast, we retired from the wet day and long weekend with classic New York pizza and old episodes of The West Wing.
Sometimes I think life in New York is like anywhere else. The backdrop is remarkable no doubt, and there are the occasional incidents that feel so unique to the city, but mostly life here is made by the friendships and personal history and the late-night conversations that happen in dimly lit bars, and the willingness to say yes to small and ordinary adventures.
And there is a salve in that.