Don’t get me wrong, I’m loving the whole start a new life, follow my bliss, Bergdorf-to-Bean existence, but really now. There’s only so much Thoreauian solitude a Brooklyn girl can take. Where’s the spicy hand-pulled noodles with cumin lamb? The millenia-old South Pacific sculptures? Beth Orton singing at the Bell House? Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be pushed around by a sweaty hipster drinking overpriced PBR in Gowanus right now. Hell, I’d even poach a shift at the podium. (Blasphemy!)
Truth is, I miss people. I’ve spent more than 5,000 days working in rooms brimming with gourmands, celebrities, friends, tourists, drunks, malcontents, striving artists, movers & shakers…and now all I have keeping me company are pesky squirrels scratching around the chimney and whatever four-legged nocturnal critters left these tracks last night. It’s a bumpy transition for a social creature to make. And it’s not even February yet. What’s a scribe to do?
I knew going into this the whole rural writing life would be in sharp contrast to my life formerly known as a globetrotting sophisticate… and I know that it was ME that broke up with New York, but criminy! Zen’s only gonna get me so far; then the rum will have to take over. And that won’t be pretty.
Phew. I’m glad I got all that off my chest.
Because this morning, I threw a down vest over my flannel pjs, plunged outside, and was confronted by heavenly paradise ~ and all is right with the world once more.