Blog.

Approximately 25 strangers were united by one brilliant moment on the N coming into Queens tonight. Three intoxicated twenty-something girls boarded the train at Queensboro. Despite their volume, they were not obnoxious but instead were joyous and amusing. We all- trained in this situation after years of city living to pretend we don’t notice anything and instead seem to be increasingly distracted by our ipods, books, iphones, the map on the wall- stayed in our little islands of isolation for the first few stops. (At least those of us not sitting directly across from them, who ended up handing over their snacks at the girls’ insistence.)

And then- the train stopped. And the girls realized they needed to get off. And two did. And then the doors closed. We were all secretly watching and then we stopped hiding it. The third girl stood in vodka-induced shock. The other two, laughing uncontrollably, pounded on the doors and tried to get the conductor’s attention. We've all thought of this- this moment, what would and could happen if we were separated at the will of the train. But how many of us has it actually happened to? And how many of us, if it did happen, would be so drunk as to not be able to find our companions after the fact? I let out an audible burst of laughter. The men and women around me followed and soon we all had a moment that we rarely get- we noticed each other. And we made eye contact. Amazingly, after a moment of doubt, the doors opened again and the girls were reunited on the other side of the glass. But it was too late- the connection happened. The kid to my right actually spoke out loud. “Thank you drunk girls. That made my night.”

Walking down Ditmars I reflected on a decade of highs and lows that come with living in a city of extremes. Surprisingly sober after a Saturday night out, I realized I’d only had three drinks over the course of the entire evening (red with dinner, gin before, whiskey after), but was buzzed enough by either the alcohol or the city to the point of nostalgia.

It was a typical and perfect New York night out. A bus to a train to another train. A band (a saxophone, a bass, and drums) played on the platform as I waited for the L. Delays. A half mile walk in 4-inch wedges and a Nicole Miller. Dinner with an amazing friend and two new friends. An ironic anti-Kosher restaurant with small inventive plates of pork and shellfish. Beautiful people. Gorgeous weather. Intelligent and snarky humor and debate. Shared life tragedies. Exposed kitchen. Laughter.

Invigorated, I bummed a cigarette off of a ponytailed girl who had been on the train. She also gave me a light. I walked a few blocks, realizing the Q69 wouldn’t come anytime soon, and then realized I didn’t like smoking. I discarded it and kept walking. And thinking.

Before dinner I visited my brother at his Williamsburg apartment and was reminded what life was like ten years ago when I first moved to this city. When I, along with all of my friends, was struggling to pay the rent but happy. Found objects made furniture and art. Ramen was a meal. A party was potluck- bring a bottle of wine or a box of crackers or your own demo tape for entertainment. Just come, with your roommate or your recent hookup or with some people you met on the street. Sit on the floor, light the mass of melted candles on the low box you’re pretending is a coffee table, and enjoy the company of the most interesting, creative, and brilliant people you never thought you would know.

Tonight I stood there admiring the creative use of space by him and his roommates in their walk-up apartment on Montrose with the toilet in a closet in the kitchen, suddenly hyper aware of my designer dress and double process hair color and impending reservations down the street. The nostalgia was palpable, a warm feeling and an involuntary smile spreading across my face at the sight of makeshift living that was once so familiar.  But there was more- a comfort, a contentment, a joy that came from realizing how far I’ve come since my first days, pre- 9/11, in a little railroad apartment in Hoboken with two other would-be actresses from Pennsylvania.

I’ve conquered. And I’m suddenly simultaneously satisfied and frustrated by this. Because what’s next? Akin to finishing a really great book; the sadness that comes when you reach the last page, wondering if you’ll ever be able to find another book to read that will bring you the same wonderment and joy, knowing that even going back and reading it again will never bring the same experience.

So what’s next?

The gypsy spirit must be nourished.

I miss my daughter. I wish I could sneak into our shared bedroom and nuzzle my face into her perfect cheek and fill her head with thoughts of amazement and contentment through osmosis. She exhausts me but fills me with joy like no other human being can. She’s been gone a week and will be back in two. The separations are necessary but they keep getting harder.

I miss my partner. I’m used to the distance but increasingly annoyed by it. Five more days until we’re reunited in California, where we both seem to be happiest.

The glow of my laptop is lighting the dining space of my little apartment. This is the first time I’ve written in awhile and it feels good.

I know there are big steps in the near future. Regardless of the decisions of other people, there is a pressure building in my life and at some point soon it will push me in a new and different direction. Nobody will be surprised.

Nights like tonight bring to question two coinciding but opposite thoughts:

1. How could I ever leave this place?
2. How am I still here?

So much of tonight’s conversation centered on how I would (could) adapt to what may become my new world. So much is different. Different has never scared me but as I age I realize how much easier it is when you are in a community of people who are like you. A subject was approached and my dining partner said “in New York it would never be questioned, but where you might move to, it would be shocking.” A moment of silence. He was right. Will I have to explain myself over and over again? Will I want to?

But it’s a challenge, isn’t it? A new adventure. A new path. A new book. The gypsy would be satisfied.

Every now and then I read a wonderful book that makes me think “how could I ever have thought that the last one was the best?”

I am taking a big breath and turning the last page. This has been an amazing time. But what I’ve recently found- my future- is not here. It’s somewhere else.

It's time to start a new book.