I now own four black skirts, four black tee shirts, three black sweaters, five pairs of black pants, seven pairs of black shoes, and two black messenger bags. When I arrived a year ago I’m pretty sure I was wearing pink.
I do most of my furniture shopping on the sidewalk the night before trash collection.
Also much of my art supply shopping.
The last time I ate at a friend’s house, there were eight of us: two Americans, two from China, two Brazilians, one Argentinian, and one from Paris/Brazil/the Bronx. Dinner conversation was in five languages, I only understand one and a half of them, and I had a great time.
If the subway doesn’t go there, I walk.
My local convenient store is owned by a nice Pakistani man and his grown son. There is a 7-Eleven two doors closer. Why would I go there? My hardware store is also family owned. They scream at each other and I find that comforting. I can barely squeeze through the aisles. They must be violating 27 fire department codes. I don’t care. They have the best drain cleaner for $5.
I’ve realized that I don’t, in fact, live alone. I live with family. They’re called doormen.
My apartment is about 400 square feet. I’m wondering if it’s not a little too big for me.
I’ve given up on Whole Foods and have embraced Trader Joe’s. (Except for Diet Coke and peanut butter. Then I’m off to Gristede’s.)
I think New Yorkers are really nice people – caring, eager for conversation and connection, and generally quite polite.