Sadly, I don't live in Paris anymore. Almost a year ago I left behind my life filled with eating crepes at least once a week, hanging out in cemeteries, and having a resting bitch face in the line 9 of the Parisian metro to living in another exciting--or so everyone said--city. New York City.
Nine months ago--the same time it takes to have a child--I moved to New York City. Filled with hopes and a fascination for the city that people claim is the greatest city and the capital of the world. Capital, maybe, greatest, not so much. I don't think I can correctly articulate why I dislike the city so much.
I love all the songs about it, I love Sinatra and for some reason when I'm walking down Park Avenue at three am I feel like Petula Clark and singing Downtown at the top of my lungs.
Maybe I'm too idealistic. I came here thinking my life would be something out of Sex and the City, or Gossip Girl--I have sat on the steps on the MET, so 1 point to me--or How I Met Your Mother. But it really resembles My So Called Life or Freaks and Geeks in regards to the excitement I feel.
I don't know, maybe I expected too much from New York.
Or maybe it's true--living in Paris ruins you for any other city. My time is now measured out in how long ago I was in Paris and in how much time I'll be back in Paris. but, alas, C'est la Vie.
Just listen to the music of the traffic in the city
I guess I should change the name of this blog to Invierno en el Mundo.
