Leaving the city.

On Friday morning I woke up for the last time in New York, stretching myself languidly along our fabulous memory foam mattress for the last time and brushed my teeth into our (relatively crappy molded) bathroom sink for the last time. I visited Annie at her 5th floor walk-up apartment for the last time, had a Lenny’s Chickavo sandwich for the last time (but for the first time on whole wheat bread, and man, should I have made that switch a long time ago!) and walked up Columbus Avenue home for the last time. And all the while I had a rock in my heart and a huge lump in my throat. I did not want to leave the city.

Strangely enough I didn’t really feel sad. I felt more…angry. And I decided to hold on to that anger for the whole day, just to prevent myself from crying, crying, crying. Because I figured that once I started, the waterfall would most likely not stop. In three short years, Manhattan had crept into my system and embedded itself in my psyche as ‘home’. The freezing, sunny days. The long walks in the park. Yes, even the vomit spots on the sidewalks. The rude walkers (“Haaay, I’m waaaalkin’ here”) and the friendly coffee cart guys. The impatient cab drivers and the polite police officers. With every fiber in my body I wanted, no, I needed, to stay.

But my brain overrode my feelings and I counted on the benefits of living closer to home, of being nearer to friends and family (but what about the friends who have become our family in New York?) and of being able to travel to Spain and Italy for a weekend. And so I kept packing. And packing and packing. Four oversized suitcases and two cabin bags later, I had a quick shower, pulled on my jeans, boots and warm coat and gave our Super’s wife a teary hug. (Sofaya was crying so much she couldn’t say goodbye and kept offering us a place to stay if we ever wanted to visit!) John, being his fabulous self, had organized a super stretch limo to take us to the airport and as we bundled our luggage and selves into the back of this long black car, I put on my brave face. This was it.

We popped a CD, made specially by Rose and titled ‘Gotham – What will you take away’ into the player, turned up the volume and John popped the cork on a bottle of Vuerve. And then, on the second glass, the tears started rolling. Uncontrollably. “Turn the car around. Turn it around,” I kept thinking, but I smiled and shook my head when John wiped my tears away and told me how lucky we were to be leaving on top. We have had the best of times. We made friends that will last us a lifetime. We went to the best parties. We did things that I would never have thought that a girl from a small town in Africa could ever do. And we were leaving it all behind for another bold adventure.

By the time the stretch limo dropped us at JFK my tears had dried and I was focusing on getting the sleeping tablets (the poor man’s business class, of course) ready and organizing us some dinner. We got on the plane and were both asleep by the time dinner was served (and I’m a bit disappointed by this as I notoriously love the lasagna on British Airways. No, really. It’s delicious). Six hours later our plane touched down at Heathrow and all our bags made it through with no problem.

We had arrived. And inside I was sad, sad, sad.

Now, after three days of non-stop rain, no sunshine and a cold that cuts right to the bone, we have organized cellphones, bank accounts and have even gone grocery shopping. We have walked miles in the rain and even attended a Goldfish concert on Leicester Square on the first night here. We are regrouping and starting over. And perhaps it won’t be so bad. Through my friend Shelley I’ve found a waxing salon and even gotten into a bookclub. She’s also hooked me up with a hairstylist whom I’m hoping to go see next week to pay some attention to my tresses. We have dinners lined up for next week, and, most importantly, John has announced that we will be going to Paris for my birthday on Thursday.

Life is looking better. The big question at the moment is what to do with this blog. Because after all, The City can only be Manhattan, right? Laurel kindly suggested I change the name of my blog to ‘Sue in the Loo’. After complaining about the non-stop miserable rain, Helena suggested ‘Sue in the Shitty’ (what do you think?).

Either way, this is going to be a whole new adventure. One that I’m ready for. Bring it.