Auld Lang Syne.

Last night I, along with my Texan, walked off of an American Airlines flight into Dallas Fort Worth International, returning from John Wayne in Orange County. He and I turned in different directions, he to get the car and me to retrieve the luggage. We kissed briefly and he reminded me that we'd said goodbye to each other in that exact same spot before, almost three years ago exactly. Only then I had walked away to my connecting flight home to New York instead.

Aware of our mutual affection but completely uncertain of what the future would hold, we parted ways that time after a blissful week eerily similar to the one we just had, filled with hikes in the canyons, dinners with friends and alone, sunset cocktails, walks on the beach and reading by the fire in his little Laguna beach cottage. But then, both of us were dealing with messy and complicated endings to our previous relationships, as well as professional and geographical hurdles to being together. Knowing all of this led to a tearful and painful goodbye, walking in different directions each filled with a confusing emotional mix of despair and hope.

And now, having removed the hurdles and worked with each other in a way that only the deep love that we have for one another allows, we are living here in Dallas together and planning our wedding. With professional, legal, financial, and familial obstacles recently lifted or at least managed to a point of little importance, we are finally free to celebrate fully what we knew in our hearts three years ago, that we are meant to spend our lives together and have chosen to do so. Now, for the first time in this process, I feel free to plan this celebration marking our legal and spiritual union, and I am entering this phase with pure joy.

As I waited outside the luggage claim with our bags from California last night, and watched his car turn around the corner and his lights flash at me in greeting, an uncontrollable smile spread across my face and my heart started beating rapidly. He pulled up and got out to help me, and I laughed. I had spent every minute of the last ten days with this man, and I was as excited to see him when he came around that corner as I was every time we'd met up at an airport over the two years we were dating long-distance. In three years so much has changed, but that feeling has only gotten stronger. How blessed we are.

Happy and Blessed 2013 to you all.

Company

Foodie is not a word that I enjoy or use to call myself. I do like food, a lot, and after years of working in hospitality and with a healthy dose of curiosity, I know quite a bit about it. I even cook it. But really I'm just a very passionate and sensual person, enjoying all senses with equal vigour. A great meal in my book satisfies all of them; it's beautifully presented, obviously it smells and tastes good, and it's enjoyed while surrounded with good company.

Who you dine with makes just as much of an impact on your experience as the person preparing the food, the decor, the music, the seat, the view, the service and the choice of wine. The balance has to be right. If any of these are not quite right, it will negatively affect the dining experience whether you realize it consciously or not. I recently enjoyed some great food at a beautiful restaurant with some incredible women. But the acoustics were off and I had to struggle to understand my friends, and because of this I have no desire to return. A few weeks ago I ate at one of the "Best New Restaurants" in New York City and although the food, decor, and wine were all as great as promised in the reviews, and my dining companions were expertly curated I must say, the server's attitude made us close out early and continue our evening elsewhere. I wanted great food but my limited time with my friends was more important.

Some of the best meals of my life come with really great stories. There is a Spanish tapas restaurant in Greenwich Village called Alta that I read about in a travel magazine years ago as a place where top chefs go when they go out, always a good sign. I chose it for my birthday celebration with my fabulous  group of friends, and I still smile when I think about that dinner and will recommend the restaurant without hesitation. I have no idea how many stars that place has, or what any of the critics had to say about it. I know that we had a Bacchanalian feast for the record books and laughed harder and left with bellies and hearts full. Everything was perfect. I remember running into Calvin Klein and John Leguizamo, and the cougar hitting on my friend at the bar. I remember friends from different parts of my life meeting each other for the first time and it makes me so happy to see that they are still friends. I remember the sounds of the kitchen and the music and the laughter, the taste of the bacon-wrapped dates and white anchovies and the Cava, the love I felt surrounded by so many wonderful friends and the man sitting next to me who would ask me to marry him a month later. 

I remember every beautiful moment of a dinner in Paris, laughing at the intimidation we felt looking at the triple-phonebook-sized wine list and welcoming course after course of food far more rich than we were used to eating, but enjoying the rare gluttonous indulgence with friends from around the world. I remember being with some of those same people in Cancun clinking the biggest margarita glasses I've ever seen. I remember Sex and the City-like conversations on sidewalk tables in New York with my girlfriends with mimosas, a business dinner on Central Park South with a table full of South Americans, and another one in East Berlin where we laughed so hard with a group of Austrians that beer came out our noses. And I remember everything being absolutely perfect at that first date dinner with my Texan at WD-50 in the Lower East Side when he came to visit me in New York one autumn evening three years ago.

The first "epic dinner" I experienced was on a beach sixteen years ago. I was in Greece as an exchange student, eating with my host family and their friends at tables under white lights and stars on the edge of the calm and warm Aegean Sea. On my plate was a whole grilled fish, something I'd never seen before, but I followed the lead of everyone around me and I can still taste and hear everything from that dinner if I close my eyes and think back. I have no idea what that restaurant was called, or what most of the people around me were talking about in Greek, but it's not important. What was important was what I sensed, what I experienced, and who I was with. That dinner started the evolution of this "foodie," shaping me to appreciate the beauty of these multi-sensory experiences around a table.

But this all works the other way, too. I have been fortunate to dine at some of the best and most critically-acclaimed  restaurants in the world, but sometimes, unfortunately, with people I didn't love or enjoy. Pained conversations, lack of any kind of intellectual or (in the case of a date) sexual chemistry, uncomfortable situations, and quite simply a bad day physically or emotionally have ruined their share of meals for me and I would imagine for most of you. Some of the restaurants I have no desire to return to because the memory is just too bad, boring, or even worse, so completely forgettable that I committed little to nothing to memory.

While on a run on the Katy Trail here in Dallas earlier this year, I spotted a restaurant that looked like my favorite little bistros in Manhattan and Paris. The doors were all opened up to the warm air, the wicker chairs were the French cafe standard issue; t was exactly what I missed since moving to Dallas. I wanted to call up some friends to grab a table, order a couple bottles of wine and S. Pellegrino, and eat and drink and talk for hours until we were kicked out.  How did I not know it was there? Why haven't I been there before? Until I realized... I had.

During one of my first visits to Dallas, I sat at one of those charming little tables for a brunch with some people I was meeting for the first time. Suffice it to say there is a reason I blocked it out. The food was fine, standard French-American bistro brunch fare, the service was sufficient, and as mentioned the decor was charming. But the conversation was so forced, unenlightening and uncomfortable that it dominated the entire experience for me. Usually I can find something to talk to anyone about; it's always been my strength. Whether with newly-immigrated busboys who barely speak English, with an international billionaire CEO, a shy spouse of a business colleague, or with a Prime Minister backstage before a big speech, I can always find something of interest for us to talk about and to make them comfortable and open. But this was beyond my reach. When a person can't talk about anything but Real Housewives, Twilight, or eyelash extensions, announces that "pretty girls don't have to work," refers to my hometown as "um... interesting" and has no idea who Malcolm Gladwell is... I honestly had no words. I couldn't rescue it and I didn't want to. I was powerless and passionless and couldn't wait for the meal to be over. The conversation may actually win the unofficial award of the most vapid of my life, and I do remember that part when I force myself to. But how in the world could I be expected to notice the food when I was concentrating on not jamming a fork into my temple to relieve the pain?

The point of this silly little story is that a good or bad restaurant experience depends on so much more than the food. I've returned to Toulouse since and I have loved it despite my miserable first experience. Thankfully it got that opportunity. I know it wasn't the restaurant's fault, but bad company will make or break an experience faster than anything else. It doesn't matter how it rates on every other factor. And that brings me back to why I am so grateful for those amazing epic dinners where the conversation flows as easily as the wine, and you leave knowing more and loving more than you did when you arrived. Sharing plates, sharing stories, opening yourself to new experiences and new senses... that's what a truly great dinner is all about.

Last night I had another one of these good experiences, and I woke up with a smile, knowing that I felt more at  home here in Dallas more than ever before because of it. A group of the most interesting, funny, talented, smart, and kind people that this city has to offer all sat around a table at Marquee Grille in Highland Park Village and toasted to Christmas and every other winter holiday we could think of. We laughed, we shared, we ate and we drank. The Chef dropped by a few times to say hello, and white twinkle lights glittered outside of the windows. I was in love, with my betrothed sitting next to me, with the ambiance, with my pork belly and tuna tartar, and with my friends.

Maybe I am a foodie, but I think I'm more of an experience junkie. Bring on the epic dinners of food, laughter and intellectual conversation, and let's not waste any more time with people who aren't lifting us higher and heightening our senses. Because in the end it's always about the company.

Choice: One Year of Deliberate Transformation.

The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our "stars" but in ourselves. 

~ Shakespeare's Cassius.

One year ago I, along with my young daughter, moved from New York, a city whose skyline adorned the walls of my childhood bedroom and whose scenes filled my dreams and veins for decades, for Dallas, a city I considered at best utterly foreign, and at worst nothing more than a collection of red state stereotypes best only considered at 30,000 feet when traveling between coasts. But it was the home of someone that I loved and his family and friends, and experience had finally taught me that this was so much more important than a city. And if I was going to live somewhere new, then I was going to find what made it wonderful and I was going to fall in love with it. I never would have guessed that this would happen so easily and so quickly. It was a combination of what Dallas actually had to offer and the place I was in my life that made this happen. 

Years before I would ever even consider living in Texas, shortly after my 30th birthday, I made the decision to live a more deliberate life in reaction to the realization that my life was on a counterproductive path of passivity. I had wasted too much time letting the proverbial chips fall where they may. On the theme of “excellence is not an act but a habit,” I knew I had to make some major life changes, and as I did my tastes and goals became clearer. With each new choice that I made, it became not only easier, but also more rewarding and more thrilling. What else could I do? What else could I learn? I started to realize for the first time the power within me, and that I had a responsibility to use it.

With a new long-distance relationship to a Texan becoming a larger factor, my determination to make positive conscious choices for us became stronger. And when the further development of that relationship eventually required a cross-country move, I knew I had to fully embrace my decision in order to avoid later misplaced resentment. Like everything else, I learned that starting over in a new city is what you decide to make of it. People loved Dallas, and I was determined to find out why and experience it myself.

Circumstances were not perfect. As I prepared for my move, life-threatening illnesses affected family on both sides. My first three months as a Texan were spent traveling for work and for family, including a week spent in Boston to donate stem cells. But with each struggle and deterrent that I encountered, I became even more determined to push past it and live a fuller life.

As a teenage exchange student in Greece, I learned to step outside of my own culture in order to understand and accept a new one, and I applied this practice to my new adventure as a Dallasite. I threw myself into the culture, pushing aside comforts of the familiar and trying as many new things as I could. Challenging myself at every venture, questioning old habits and tastes, I opened myself to new experiences, people, and ideas daily.

At first in the chaos I simply opened my heart to the people and activities that were automatically part of my new life. Some have stayed because I chose to keep them. Some I knew would never fit, and they dropped out organically as I expected they would. New people came into the picture, welcoming me with true southern hospitality and inviting me to join them in new experiences. It was a shock to my New Yorker sensibilities, but I grew to appreciate them exponentially.

Probably the biggest challenge of the past year has been learning how to drive for the first time. For various reasons that I won't get into now, I never had a drivers license, but I knew it was absolutely a requirement in my new state if I was going to have the life that I was trying to lead. This challenge required the encouragement and at times force by my fiance, I admit, but in the end it was the most important of my adventures and I ended up with my first driver's license 2 days before my 33rd birthday. 

Physically I have undoubtedly changed. Of course I am most definitely wearing brighter colors, more make-up, longer and, yes, bigger hair, and higher heels than I ever thought I would or could. At times a conscious choice in a "if you can't beat 'em…" mindset, and sometimes I even surprise myself. Occasionally I force myself to wear all black with my ponytail and glasses again, just feel like "myself." I was requested to gain weight for the transplant, and it wasn’t hard when adapting to the cuisine and car culture of Texas. The difficult part was losing it afterwards, so I made some new healthy choices, starting yoga and running my first and second 5K races. The results have been more strength, flexibility, and energy than ever before, despite not ever being able to shed those “Texan Ten.”

When my daughter wanted to take ballet, I signed up for whatever adult class was happening at the same time. When the studio later started offering Bollywood class, I couldn’t resist. I ice-skated for the first time, and that same evening walked to the middle of the rink and sang the National Anthem before a minor league hockey game. I was probably expected to back out from nerves, having not done it since high school. But I didn’t, and it was another successful attempt at something new.

I started seeking out more new opportunities. I did my first pub crawl, which included my first ride on a mechanical bull. I got my first pair of cowboy boots and actually wore them with a cocktail dress at a fundraising event with the cast of Dallas. I attended my first professional football games and fashion shows. I traveled to Orlando, Boston, New York, New Orleans, North Carolina, Berlin, Krakow, Frankfort, Shanghai, Beijing, Laguna Beach, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, Cancun, Philadelphia, Phoenix, San Francisco, Chicago, and Austin. To facilitate these travels for a mix of work, family, and pleasure, I've tried to learn or re-learn Mandarin, German, Spanish, and Polish, spending hours in coffee shops and pubs with tutors.  I realized recently that I know exactly one perfect useful phrase in each now, and at least one in each to offend or amuse native speakers. 

Spicy food no longer scares me and football no longer bores me. My new circle of friends is beautifully varied, full of fascinating people that I chose to be there and feel honored to have in my life. People from my old life that once held me back are no longer prominent, a choice that was difficult but with the help of loved ones and professionals became all too clear.

Arriving in Texas one year ago, exhausted from moving and goodbye celebrations, I was greeted with a bouquet of yellow roses and treated to a classic barbeque lunch. I knew if I was going to do this, I was going to do it all the way and I welcomed the challenges ahead. I know now that the things I've learned, the experiences I've had, and the love I've felt since opening my heart and mind and purposely living outside of my comfort zone are irreplaceable. I am a better mother, a better partner, a better friend, a better professional, and a better person because of the events of the past year. I know that I never would have felt the joy that I do now had I not chosen to live this deliberate life, and I’m proud to have done it here in Dallas.

Drive.

 

It is a long story as to why I didn't get my first driver's license until 2 weeks prior to my thirty-third birthday. While I did live in New York City for most of my adult life and certainly didn't need to drive during that time, I'm not actually from NY so that's not really an excuse. Mostly I was just too damn busy. I spent the summers of my teen years living in a small beach town where I could walk or bike everywhere, and during the rest of the year I was so involved in school and local theater that I couldn't be bothered to find the time to learn to drive. We weren't allowed to have cars on campus at my small university in Pennsylvania anyway, and then I high-tailed it up to the big bad Big Apple as soon as I could. I lived in walkable South Beach while in Miami, and while in west midtown in Atlanta for a few months I really never needed to drive as my jobs and social life were all in a small easy radius of my loft. The more time that went by, the more I learned to live without driving a car, and to be honest the more the idea of it frightened me. When you're older you have had the chance to see the damage that driving can cause, and you've probably lost a friend or two in accidents. I was in no hurry to take on that level of responsibility, thank you very much.

But it was always understood that when I moved here to Dallas I would need a car, and a license to drive it. It was usually one of the first remarks made when I brought up the subject of moving; "I guess you're going to have to learn how to drive then!" I accepted this reality and knew I would have to get over my fear. Friends in NYC graciously offered to watch my daughter while I took a few lessons from the local driving school, but driving in Queens is nothing like driving on Texas highways. Nothing. And my Texan's shiny black Audi A5 is a little different than the driving school Toyota Corollas. So taking "lessons" from him when I arrived here was like starting over completely. Not knowing my way around didn't help. I couldn't have found Dallas on a map before a year ago.

Luckily, living in West Village has been really wonderful, with multiple boutiques, salons, a Starbucks, yoga studio, grocery store, and restaurants within walking distance, as well as my daughter's school. It's been a lot like back home, only cleaner and quieter. The free Uptown Trolley takes us down to the Arts District and everywhere in between, and cabs, my Texan and his family have been sufficient for the rest until now. I'm sure I've been quite the sight around here, walking between Albertson's and the bank and our townhouse carrying groceries and drycleaning in my reusable canvas shopping bags, with the other hand holding a cup of coffee and phone, just like I did in New York. That aside, it has been nice to get out and learn my neighborhood and I like to think I may have inspired a few other people to leave their cars behind when running local errands.

But with the approaching summer and the beginning of my job search, we knew that it was only a matter of time before a car was a necessity. My Texan has been an incredibly patient instructor over the last eight months, whenever we had the time for him to teach me, which wasn't often. With every work trip I went weeks without getting behind the wheel, delaying my progress considerably. Still, he would insist that I drive during our weekend pilgrimages up to Allen, giving me the highway experience that I had lacked. I was scared to death, with you people in your big SUVs and trucks speeding down 75 and my daughter singing or sleeping in the back seat. But he coached me and encouraged me, teaching me everything I needed to learn for my test and also the more practical lessons about Texan drivers and roads.

Finally I felt somewhat ready and realized that I wanted to get this thing before my first birthday in Texas. I filled out the necessary paperwork, stood in multiple lines at the DL office in Cedar Hill, and made the soonest possible appointment for the driving test, 2 days before my birthday. If I didn't pass I wouldn't make my goal, making me even more determined. The day arrived and, with the loving encouragement from my fiance and little girl, I got in the car with the stoic man who would decide my fate. I bombed parallel parking (I'm blaming nerves) but aced the rest. I parked the car and he said "you passed," and a few tears came to my eyes and I couldn't wipe the grin from my face. I waited twice as long as most Americans for this milestone and that made it so much more thrilling. And a relief. My birthday was a celebratory occasion for so many reasons this year, but this was the biggest.

***

Bread Winners was one of the first places I went to in Dallas for brunch. I'd forgotten about that until returning the other evening. My Texan told me even before I moved here that it was a top brunch spot for Dallasites, and after experiencing it I understood why. There were (and are) always lines of people waiting for tables weekend mornings, and deservedly so. But last week, I was invited to a lovely event at the Inwood Village location highlighting their sexy new cocktail menu. As a new girl in town, I am so appreciative the invites that come my way and I was excited to see some of my favorite new people there, and of course any opportunity to sample new cocktails is always welcome. I mean, really.

But attending this event meant driving all by my lonesome for my first driving night out. I would need those cocktails when I arrived as it was. But the day before, while cramming into the back seat of the 2-door car to replace a freshly laundered car seat lining, I heard a thump in the front and turned around in horror to find my 4-year old daughter holding the rear-view mirror, the wires still attached to the windshield. My Texan handled it surprisingly well, and he and I spent the next half hour trying to re-affix the mirror, to no avail. It was clear that we needed professional help but there would be no opportunity for a few days. The more experienced driver of us was fine of course, but I was not happy about this at all. Not one bit.

Determined to make it to the event at Bread Winners out of appreciation for their hospitality and a need to get out of the house (working from home is not always ideal), I kissed my loves goodbye and set out for Inwood Village. With a brand new license, 5-inch heels, and a useless rear-view mirror dangling from the windshield, I made it to Bread Winners and was rewarded generously with good friends, new friends, and their mulitple new cocktails. I couldn't drink too many of those, being far too nervous about my ride home, but I sampled quite a few and they are not too shabby. This ain't just brunch-land anymore.

But all of the sampling aside, it was wonderful to catch up with some friends in the light and airy atmosphere and make some new friends too. I am sure most of the people there had no idea what a monumental evening that was for me. I delayed my exit for a bit because of my nerves, chatting up all of the other fabulous attendees as long as I could, but eventually is was time to get back in the saddle, so to speak. And so I did. I grabbed my bag of Bread Winners cookies and walked solo across the parking lot towards that beautiful shiny black car with the dangling rear-view mirror, opened the door, sat in the driver's seat and smiled.

***

I made it home sans incident that night, despite the availability of so many beautiful cocktails. The mirror was fixed the next day. This weekend I had my first opportunity to drive around a borrowed Cadillac Escalade monster to escort my visiting family around town and was reluctant with that too at first but didn't do too badly. My driver's license card came in the mail this week and although a few friends tried to bribe me to NOT drive in their neighborhoods for a few months, I am really looking forward to the next invitation and solo night out. And of course the next big step of buying my first car. I will still be walking around my neighborhood a lot regardless; it's convenient, it's healthy, and above all I like to do it and it reminds me of my old life. But I admit that it will be so nice, for the first time in my life, to have the option to get in my car and drive.

Identity.

culture shock (noun): a state of bewilderment and distress experienced by an individual who is suddenly exposed to a new, strange, or foreign social and cultural environment

assimilation (noun): a process by which members of a minority group lose cultural characteristics that distinguish them from the dominant cultural group or take on the cultural characteristics of another group.

Assimilation usually involves a gradual change and takes place in varying degrees; full assimilation occurs when new members of a society become indistinguishable from older members.

1369.87 miles. That's how far I am now from the place I called home for the most formative decade of my life. Before I moved there I was mostly still in the same geographical region; a full-fledged "Yankee" my entire life.

People keep asking if the transition has been hard. And the easy answer is no, it hasn't been hard. Dallas is still a modern and fashionable city full of interesting people and a thriving arts and food scene. I'm lucky to live in a rare urban section where I am two blocks from some of my favorite boutiques, restaurants, and salons.  In terms of convenience, with the exception of the lack of a corner bodega and readily available public transportation, it isn't much different. Here I have without a doubt an easier life and a healthier life because of that.

In New York it was only me and my daughter and some incredible friends and neighbors when I really needed them and was actually willing to ask for help. But here I have my amazing fiance and an unconditionally loving and supportive family (for the first time in my life). And he, the man who I dated via email, long late-night phone calls, and a plethora of miles on American Airlines, has done everything in his power to help me adjust and to welcome both me and my daughter into his home and friendships. The rest of the people I have met have been unbelievably welcoming and warm, and I have been overwhelmed by how many I have come to quickly adore, and the number of opportunities I've had to meet more. With the traveling that I do for my NY-based job and the time I spend with my family, I have not been able to attend or participate in so many things I have wanted to. There is no shortage of things to do and to keep me involved and enjoying life in Dallas when I have the time for them. And of course I now actually have a washing machine, a dishwasher, and a pool; luxuries that most Manhattanites can only dream of.

I am working on getting my driver's license, which will make things even easier for me, and I am on the hunt for a Dallas-based job that will keep me in town more often. My fiance and I are trying to figure out where in the world (literally) to hold our wedding and once we get that figured out we can get to planning and get that stress off of our shoulders.

The transition, logistically and superficially, has been easy.

But emotionally and psychologically it has been and continues to be a challenge. When you spend your whole life thinking of yourself and your friends in one way, and you suddenly have that thinking turned upside down, how do you handle that? It's not about New York vs. Dallas, or even North vs. South. It's simply one culture- of my family, my neighborhood, my childhood environment, my way of thinking, vs. another- the one I've been surrounded by since my move here.

When I was 16, I was awarded a scholarship to participate in a summer exchange program and lived with a family in Greece for two months. A lot of life lessons came from that trip. I had to step out of my comfort zone every day. The food, the smells, the language, the alphabet, the styles, the weather, the music, everything was different. But I adapted. And I fell in love with that country. That was the trip that made me appreciate food and hospitality to the extent that I do today and I am beyond grateful for that experience. After that I would say you could pick me up and plunk me down anywhere in the world and I would be fine. I would adapt. I am a natural chameleon.

Anywhere, I would joke, but Texas. And everyone would laugh because it made sense. I was "such a New Yorker!" friends and strangers alike always said. I grew up loving everything about that city; I had posters of the skyline on the walls of my childhood bedroom and even on the worst days during my time there, I loved it. Everything was beautiful and interesting and amazing and I knew at my core, I belonged there.

And so when I first started dating my Texan it was hilarious to everyone who knew me. I wasn't serious, was I? But I was. I fell in love with a person and everything about our relationship was right, regardless of the geographical and cultural differences. I knew this move was something I had to consider back when it was only a flirtation. It was just another state, another city. It was still part of my country; surely it couldn't be that hard.

I know it's usually a light-hearted joke when Southerners talk about the Yankees, but you all know that there is usually truth in jest. Most of it comes from confusion. Why do they do the things they do and think the way they think? It is confusing so we make jokes out of it. But it is true that the inherent culture is so drastically different. You can talk all you want about people just being people and it's a big city like anywhere else, and to some extent of course that's true. But to adapt to a new culture you have to step out of your own and this is the first time I've had to step SO FAR out of my comfort zone in order to really see the people and the culture around me for what they were. Traveling abroad I found more people who were "like me" than I've found here, in a city that is in my own country. And that's okay, but it does take some time to adjust to.

The women here are beautiful, there is no doubt. But it is hard to accept a culture where aesthetic beauty is valued so highly, when you are raised in a culture where it is devalued. Life experience, education, knowledge of the events of the world are what I always looked for in friends and colleagues, and so did they. We endeavored to improve ourselves intellectually and culturally, not aesthetically. We, as a culture, were proud of aging gracefully and used any cosmetic enhancements sparingly. So when I first came to Texas my guard was up and I was initially turned off by the southern belle stereotype and the requisite "bling," cosmetic surgery and big hair. The first girls I met in Texas were fodder for countless jokes in my NYC office for the months before my move. It's no secret that I started off with the "us versus them' mentality and it was frustrating. It was mostly frustrating because once I moved here, I really liked the majority of the people I was meeting and that caused so much inner conflict. But I have worked really hard to embrace what makes Dallas special, even if that means going out of my comfort zone as I learned to do 17 years ago.

When we got engaged last August and officially decided that I would be the one to move cross country, one of the first things I did was walk into the Sephora on 5th Avenue on my lunch break. I was asked how they could help me. I said "I'm moving to Dallas."

"OH HONEY.... WHY?!?" was the response from the lovely young male make-up artist working the floor. I told him I fell in love with a Texan. And he sighed, grabbed my hand, pulled me over to his work bench, and said "ok, then. let's get to work." And he proceeded to explain the process and required items for doing a full face of make-up, Texas-style. I had no idea what some of those brushes were for, but I do now.

It was funny,  and as much as I grumbled (especially at the credit card charge), it was fun. It was my first step towards assimilation. It was just superficial and I was okay with it. I was teased by everyone in the office but in the end they told me I looked good, even if a little too "Southern." I took it in stride. The nice thing was that my Texan man didn't expect me or ask me to do this; it was my own gesture. He seemed torn too; he liked me for who I was when we started dating, but he had to admit the "prettier" version wasn't so bad at the appropriate times. I figured if the culture here is to step up the make-up a bit, I certainly didn't want to embarrass him or myself by digging in my heels. It wasn't that big of a deal.  Getting rid of my daily ponytails, geek chic glasses, and black midtown office wardrobe has been a little more difficult and I promise that they will not disappear completely. But I admit it is nice to have society's permission to get a little prettied up sometimes. In true Rodgers and Hammerstein fashion, I'm enjoying being a girl.

But the deeper stuff is harder to accept. The jokes are different, the assumptions are different, the tastes are different. What I grew up understanding was "bad" is celebrated; what I understood was universally accepted as "good" is often a punchline. I have moments when my head feels fuzzy and the ground feels shaky and I wonder what rabbit hole I have fallen down and what alternate universe I've woken up in. I am not saying that what I knew and understood before was "right," in fact quite the opposite- I'm questioning my understood reality for the first time in my life and that is what is so hard. The more conservative ways of being and thinking, (and yet more "liberal" way of dressing), the easier, simpler, and slower life, gradually building my own Texan pride with the voice of so many mentors still cracking their jokes about life below the Mason-Dixon line; this is where adapting is hard. I am getting the "who are you now" bitterness from old acquaintances and family members up north who do not like the changes they are seeing. And I'm still teased occasionally here about being a Yankee. So the struggle is constant, and has become part of my daily life.

Right now the pendulum is still swinging dramatically. I go from being determined to remain a New Yorker to my core, to suddenly seeing the negative parts of my Northeast upbringing for what they are. On the flip side I go from being annoyed by the differences here to embracing them and subconsciously completely assimilating, bringing me to momentary states of shock. I suppose the right place to be is the exact place I will end up when this pendulum finally slows to a halt: right in the middle; maintaining my roots but being truly comfortable in my new home. I know I have no plans to leave any time soon and fighting any changes will not do me or anyone around me any good.

I've been here for half a year and have purposely made it a year of new experiences, constantly and deliberately putting myself out of my comfort zone in a wide range of ways, from singing the National Anthem at a sports event to painting my toenails electric blue to learning Mandarin. I will write about all of these experiences in detail when I reach my one year Texas anniversary in November. Right now I'm about to celebrate my first birthday in Texas, and in a few weeks we will celebrate my daughter's.With each milestone I become more deeply rooted here.

This morning in yoga class we learned about Svadhyaya, which means becoming close to oneself through meditation and self-exploration.  It refers to knowing more and more about oneself, intentionally. I laughed to myself during the lesson; I have been in a self-reflective state for eight months now and there is still so much to learn.

Acclimation.

My post Acclimation can be found at CraveDFW: 

http://cravedfw.com/2012/03/01/acclimation

Limbo.

“The city. So many lights you can actually pretend one of ‘em’s shining on you.” *

New York is a city that is beautiful in its wickedness. By living here you are automatically subject to a dysfunctional abusive relationship. It mistreats you, ignores you, beats you up daily. And you keep coming back for more.

In general, New Yorkers are unbelievably resilient. We drink too much, sleep too little, work far too hard and stress about absolutely everything. We get knocked down daily and it doesn’t phase us in the least. In fact it’s expected. We pay too much for our lives and rarely if ever take a break. We have to keep moving- it’s our collective coping mechanism. If we stop, we may have to catch a breath, clear our heads and be in the moment, and nothing terrifies us more. There’s always more, better, and to stop means to lose our chance at attaining the unattainable. So we push and push and push until our bodies or our minds reach their breaking point. When we’re forced to acknowledge and accept the reality of our abusive relationship and consider doing something about it. We see the dark circles under our eyes and recognize that our overstimulated lives are killing us. And it’s time to make a choice. Do I stay or do I go?

“Small town girl she comes to town. Tin of rouge and strapless gown. Dies a lot before she gets to die… but with a smile she’ll say, “that’s the low-down down.”*

We are not unaware of the dysfunction. That’s half the reason many of us came here. It’s hard to focus on the little intimate moments of our silly lives when we’re just focused on survival. And we don’t want to focus on the moments. We answer emails at two in the morning, apply our make-up in rattling subway cars or jolting taxi cabs, eat on the run (if at all) and get the heels of our shoes replaced monthly after beating them down on the city concrete and grates. Just. Keep. Running.

“You swim with sharks in shallow pools. You get bit and them’s the rules. I got bit and almost eaten whole. But I liked it.”*

I consider myself one of the lucky ones. New York didn’t chew me up and spit me out the way it does others. There were many rough times but more beautiful moments. Inspiring, awe-filled moments. And I’m leaving on a high note, and not because I have to. 

I was lucky because I met someone who helped me learn how to slow down. On a cool and rainy December day in California almost two years ago, this someone suggested that we take a nap. It seemed like the perfect thing to do. But I had wi-fi withdrawal anxiety and my head was spinning with a to-do list and thoughts about anything and everything. And I made it clear that I. Don’t. Nap. Ever.

But I laid down with him on the big soft couch and read my book, (my third time through The Great Gatsby). I closed my eyes and woke up an hour later- I had actually relaxed enough to fall asleep, even though I hadn’t worked myself to the point of exhaustion. It was a revelation; I know that something changed then. It’s only once you really experience life outside again that you realize how much your city life is destroying you. 

About a year after that initial moment of self-discovery, I made the decision to leave New York. I didn’t know yet where I would go, but I accepted that it was the best choice for me and my daughter. I had a few options in the works and it all just depended on which way the winds would blow. 

"Passion is not so much an emotion as a destiny. What choice have I in the face of this wind but to put up my sail and rest my oars?" ~ j. winterson

In this entry I’ve been referring to New Yorkers as ‘we’. But this is no longer accurate. Early this morning I packed up the last of my things, turned out the lights of my little Queens apartment and locked the door for the last time. At this moment that I am writing this, I’m in limbo. Most of my things are in a storage unit until the moving company can transport them to my new abode. Right now, at this very moment, I am between homes. But in a few more hours, I will start a new life in a new city.

Maybe I’ll start with a nap.

“People like us… lost… and found…”*

* song lyrics from the Broadway musical “The Wild Party”

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.