I am back from my spontaneous trip to New York, which turned out to be much more mind-blowing than I had intended. I guess I am not as smooth at the cultural transition as I thought. How could I forget in 6 short months about my New York nemesis, the subway? Or the trash cyclones that can take you out at any moment? The metaphor of city as boyfriend (i.e. I have two lovers, Paris and New York) was extended, with New York now playing the role of ex-boyfriend. You may still have feelings for him, and he may look good when you see him, but it is only a matter of time before you realize that it is still the same old bullshit.

As soon as I am over my jetlag, which vaccillates between nausea and moderate euphoria, I will write more about the last 2 weeks, including a hike in the 1000 Acre Swamp, pizza and beer Rochester-style, a re-read of Harry Potter 5, all-you-can drink cocktails at the Plaza with George Crumb, a few wild parties at a chateau near Fontainebleau (with togas), a rooftop in Williamsburg, and an apartment in the East Village, a Nathan's hot dog and a ride on the Cyclone at Coney Island (and a nasty, bizarre sunburn), a ghost tour of an old bar, great streetside Thai food eaten in the grass at Prospect Park, a long cry, a pile of pierogies, Rudolf Nureyev and the Muppets, a granita di caffe at Reggio, and Venezuelan hippies hidden behind a Volkswagen bus in, of all places, Tribeca.

I gotta go now though, because I swear to God a hear a marching band playing "Oh, when the Saints go marching in..." on the street down below and that is just not a normal occurrence here in Saint-Mande.