i did it.

i found the pool this morning.

and i paid my 2 bucks.

and now i feel like i've been run over by a dump truck (but that might have something to do with the nyc heat and jetlag).

but oh how the body loves to swim!

image via ffffound.

dear husband-to-be,

i culled many wonderful and impressive gobs of knowledge from my time in australia.

chief among them is this:

a man looks far, far, far better when his suit is cut in the italian fashion.

why do american men wear their suits baggy and ill-fitting? they look like little boys playing dress up.

a well fitted suit-pant can make an okay-looking-man into a good-looking-man. a good-looking-man into a great-looking-man. and so on.

i can't even begin to imagine how you will look.

but because i am forced to wait for that fateful day when our eyes do meet, you cannot blame me for the torrid love affair i might just have with this man:

because he looks damn good in that suit. and because i would look damn good on the back of his vespa.

image via the only place

it could be from:

the sartorialist

uh-oh-spaghettio

biggest danger of new neighborhood:

running into boys that i just do not want to see again. ever.

no use hiding though.

because, let's be honest, that's a hazard living anywhere in this city. 

image via visualize.us

closet not mine. though wishing

it was (along with

those legs. but

that's another story)!

on track.

a trip's worth of laundry is at the wash and fold

my not-so-pristine-anymore (once-white) duvet is at the dry cleaners

the men are mopping the apartment building's halls this morning

my art project is mid-instillation

i am completely caught up on all three seasons of burn notice (mmm...that michael westen)

and yesterday i ate approximately seven servings of fruits and vegetables

more than a fort.

I came to visit one night. To make sure I could live here. We had drinks, my friend and I. And talked about life now, a year after school.

And then I took the red-line subway home, to my little pocket on the Upper West Side. I climbed into my too-small bed, in my too-small bedroom—my too small bedroom without a door--and I cried.

I cried for the all the things I imagined I was losing. I cried for failed expectations and the perpetual push away of that line—that demarcation of success.

And then I woke the next morning, washed away exhaustion and disappointment, and set about busying myself with all the tasks a move demands:

Telling the roommate. Letter of notice. Cleaning. Packing. Painting (oh the painting). To take the bed or not? Change of address. Weaning the wardrobe. Trips to Goodwill. Cajoling friends into helping with the actual move.

And all the while I was afraid. You see, I’d lived on the Upper West Side for five years. Two years in a dorm at 66^th street, followed by two different apartments at 104^th, and finished by my near-year stint at 80^th. A forty block radius, in which I conducted my life. A forty block radius in which I attempted to become an adult. And yet here I was hurtling myself a hundred blocks north of my-so-called-home.

It was a product of funds. Of not having enough to live in such a “prime” location. It was capitulation, this move.

And yet I found that as I ticked away all those tedious tasks, I began ticking away other things--things I’ve long talked about but never acted on.

I bought a bike. And went in search of the perfect swimming pool. I found it at 145^th and Riverside—I’m going tomorrow for the first time. I began to keep track of expenses and I (wait for it) did my taxes. And this idea of growing up, becoming an adult was suddenly an appealing notion. For the first time in my life (truly, the first time) it seemed thrilling, actually.

And so this move became about more than necessary funds, or the lack thereof. It was not capitulation, but decision. A choice. A change. An opportunity.

I spent the summer after my sophomore year of high school in Manhattan. Five weeks. I took the bus in every morning and walked thirteen blocks south to 27^th street. And the city revealed itself to me and I to it. And I fell in love with mutual revelation.

I have spent five years trying to rediscover that love, or to recreate it.

Washington Heights is the most topographically diverse area in all of Manhattan.

It is.

Before I moved up here I would throw this fact around, using it as currency—one of many justifications I employed to convince others that I was in fact excited to make the move uptown. I don’t tell people this anymore, I don’t need to, I don’t need to justify anything. But because we’re all friends, I’ll tell you...two blocks north of me is a park where back in day, good ol’ George Washington set up fort with the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War. Mmmmm…I hate to brag, doesn't that history just turn you on?

And the street I live on is hilly. It bends to kiss the Hudson river. The George Washington Bridge stands guard against the skyline. It is strong and constant. The bakery across the street sells a roll that reminds me of my two week stint in Cuernavaca—we’d walk into a panaderia with two dollars in our pocket and walk out with two brown paper bags of bread—it was a happy time when one survived on bread and milk alone.

I can always find a seat on the A train. And the apartment gets light. And I have a door!

The grocery store on 187^th is small and clean and wide with inviting aisles. It carries pumpking flax and ciao bella gelato. I could marry the grocery store! There are no crowds to fight, no throngs to move against. Fairway was always an experiment in tolerance and agility.

I love the relative calm here. The near silence. I love the ubiquity of bikes. Yes, the ubiquity of bikes! What a satisfying statement! And more than anything I love that it feels small and lush. It is a neighborhood. And I have found my Manhattan and mutual revelation is once more mine to unfold.

I loved Australia. The whole experience was divine. And yet there was no better feeling than climbing into a yellow taxi after a 20 hour sojourn, asking the driver to take me home, and for the first time in five years of Manhattan living, believing in the power of that word. Home.

I am home. And life is good.