It’s now been 15 days into our 110 day trip. More than 10% done, which feels surreal on both ends of the spectrum. That it’s already been 15 days, and we still have 95 to go. Continuing on to the French Riviera last week solidified the feeling this isn’t a vacation, quite oppositely it is life for the next several months.
People keep asking me where we live and I want to say New York, but that isn’t true anymore. We don’t live on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, but we also don’t yet live in LA either. We live right here in this moment. Which is beautiful and strangely bittersweet at the same time.
When I left San Francisco to travel and then move across the country, it was an overdue transition. The city breaking me down slowly each day I overstayed my welcome. But I wasn’t done with New York. And I know New York wasn’t done with me.
Our last night in town we sat at dinner in the West Village. A cozy Italian spot with more empty bottles than glasses on the table. Old friends and new interlaced around us, forming the most abstract and illusory family. Our love for each other and this city never grew stagnant. Always in constant motion, growing and transforming as boldly as the seasons do there. It’s the thing I miss the most right now and the reason I still respond with “New York”, anytime anyone asks where we are visiting from.
I find comfort in the fact that leaving early means the city will always remain elusive in my mind. A perfect home and a place I yearn to return one day.