the end.

she couldn't breathe.

it was as though the city was crumbling in on her.

it was on the subway when she first noticed it: the slow, inching end of her love-affair with new york. she had ceased to find any charm in the thousand little eccentricities around her.

she could no longer bear the plaintive cries of taxi horns or the cloying sense of loneliness in crowded elevators.

so she began to pull out detailed maps of the continental US. she traced the orange interstate lines back and forth, up and down, planning her escape. her fingers running over the rocky mountains, the great lakes, along the continental divide divining for answers, groping for meaning. the questions always, where to go?

she dreamt of closing her eyes, moving her hand along the folded ridges until she felt the need to stop. and that stop would be the beginning. the next move. the migratory edict.

but she lacked the courage to close her eyes.

and without an answer she was forced to stay.

a ride uptown.

the girl with the strange glasses sits directly across from me. sandwiched between two whole food's totes and reading bill bryson.

to her right is a beautiful indian woman with a man far too old for her. is this a date? is that a faint smile of adoration or despair?

in the crook of the doorway is a man sleeping standing up. his face pressed unnaturally against the subway window. he drops his soda can. then opens it. makes no motion to wipe the fizz from his puffy winter vest. sleep resumes. now the open soda can falls. he is slow to recover and an unnatural torrent of coca-cola makes its way across the car's floor.

the indian woman nudges the woman with the strange glasses. indicates she should mover her grocery sacks. bill bryson in hand the woman with in glasses migrates further into the subway car. the indian woman and {her date?} follow suit.

the man with the coke drinks what remains in the can. he doesn't care.

and train hurtles on, all of us in tow, past 168th street.

the A train.

she clung to his dark leather jacket as he leaned against the subway pole.

one finger nestled into the deep v of his zipper.

she didn't know the A train then.

didn't know where it would go or end up.

only that he knew.

that he would lead.

and she would continue to cling.

sometimes life calls for a good ring-around-the-carousel.

and with it the reminder that new york city is meant to be enjoyed.

a point to the city please.

and to whitney, who reminded me.

sometimes it feels as though the whole of the universe conspires to teach me patience.

but i am not a patient person. and very resistant to new lessons.

my friend whitney came to town for the weekend. and determined to show her the best of all five boroughs i dragged her to brooklyn for grimaldi's coal-oven pizza. grimaldi's very famous coal-oven pizza. grimaldi's you-must-often-wait-in-a-line-for coal-oven pizza.

we arrived around four hoping the line would be short. it was not. we waited for an hour. in the cold. shivering and shaking.

when we finally arrived inside we watched as everyone around received their orders.

and then sat in shock as they shut down the oven. needed to be refreshed, they said.

and so we waited another hour, pizzas flanking us on either side.

and i grew grumpy.

(attractive, no?)

and our plates just sat there.

empty.

even whitney, cool-much-more-pulled-together-than-me-whitney, grew...frustrated.

and then. miracle of miracles. it came.

the relief. the sweet, sweet relief.

grimaldi's is good. really good. always good. but not necessarily worth the two hour wait.

so, go when the crowds do not.

clearly, i still have a thing or two to learn about patience.