--from the biography of Truman Capote, "Capote," by Gerald Clarke
I am a Southerner in the City, an aging debutante, a small town girl cursed with big city aspirations. My grandfather says that I’m at the cusp of feminine failure—I’m as old as a bottle of prime Tennessee whiskey (aged 25 years) and still single. I need to “get on home” and find a nice Southern boy—a doctor, maybe an insurance salesman. At this, I dig in my heels and set out to date every inappropriate man in Manhattan…
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Funny Way 'a Talkin'
"Somehow Northerners have the vague idea that Southerners are just like them, except for their funny way of talking... I know I thought that. Seeing Truman with the [others], however, I realized that there is a whole shared experience in being Southern."
Friday, November 25, 2005
Doe a Deer...
The cousins named a deer after me--Little Belle. She's probably the fawn that runs ahead of the doe, gets lost in the woods, subsequently finds her way and then dreams about the hours, minutes, seconds, days that she spent alone. The little brain and big, wide eyes can't really recollect or see the days for what they were. I am the deer and the deer is me and the cold twilight and loneliness have a habit of being romanticized and turned into times of exploration and self-actualization.
I want to change.
I want to see things for what they really are. I don't want to deify, glorify or over conceptualize things from my past. Zora Neale Hurston said, "There are years that ask questions and years that answer." This year--right this very moment!--I want to realize the beauties before me, the blessings that have been handed down (from somewhere--from above?). I don't want to look back with the requisite misty eyes and wish that I were still single instead of with Southern Boy, that I were living in Trastevere, Rome instead of SoHo, New York, that I were writing news scripts for broadcasts instead of chapters for a novel. I want to live in the here and now.
Ms. Hurston would have claimed these past twelve months to be my Year of Answers. In the same manner, Truman Capote would have said that this was my year of Answered Prayers. I fell in love with a beautiful loving soul (a man that I had heretofore only known in my most ambitious daytime reveries), I pursued my passion for writing and actually achieved my dream, I grew closer to my family.
I'm out of the woods. I'm on the right path. I'm experiencing a wonderful time in my life... which probably means that the cousins are up in the tree stand, aiming to shoot me, stuff me, mount me on the bedroom wall.
Damn, there I go again.
I want to change.
I want to see things for what they really are. I don't want to deify, glorify or over conceptualize things from my past. Zora Neale Hurston said, "There are years that ask questions and years that answer." This year--right this very moment!--I want to realize the beauties before me, the blessings that have been handed down (from somewhere--from above?). I don't want to look back with the requisite misty eyes and wish that I were still single instead of with Southern Boy, that I were living in Trastevere, Rome instead of SoHo, New York, that I were writing news scripts for broadcasts instead of chapters for a novel. I want to live in the here and now.
Ms. Hurston would have claimed these past twelve months to be my Year of Answers. In the same manner, Truman Capote would have said that this was my year of Answered Prayers. I fell in love with a beautiful loving soul (a man that I had heretofore only known in my most ambitious daytime reveries), I pursued my passion for writing and actually achieved my dream, I grew closer to my family.
I'm out of the woods. I'm on the right path. I'm experiencing a wonderful time in my life... which probably means that the cousins are up in the tree stand, aiming to shoot me, stuff me, mount me on the bedroom wall.
Damn, there I go again.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Brenda Star
The smell of newsprint thrills me as much today just as it did when I was a little girl, hoisted on Granddaddy’s hip, taking a tour of the back shop. I remember inhaling the heady mixture of ink, bay breezes and dirt while I looked out at the young men, old men, black men, white men, self-proclaimed Gulf Coast crackers working side by side in his hangar space of flickering orange light and deafening noise. They hunched over the monstrous printing presses, smeared in ink, sweat dropping from the tips of their noses. Limp cigarettes dangled from thin, colorless lips. As we walked around the periphery of the machines, Granddaddy mouthed to me, “No rules,” wagging his index finger in my face like an over-zealous stage actor. My 5 year-old perceptions of his words made that cavernous expanse of cement a sort of Willy Wonka Chocolate Factory of whimsy and possibility. I thought Pappy rolled out cotton candy machines during the overnight shift, chocolate milk spurted from the water fountain, pillow fights ensued after night fall to keep the men awake. The association of newspapers with fantasy and otherworldliness is a strange one as no other profession is so grounded in the day-to-day. Yet, somehow the visions hold fast. The fantasy remains.
Twenty years have passed, it’s 7 o’clock in the morning, and, now, I’m standing on my own two feet. I pad out to the entry hall of my apartment building (silk robe, white terry-cloth slippers) and hope that, somehow, the New York Times will smell like the back shop, like Granddaddy, like home. I press my nose and lips to the almost translucent gray sheet of “A1” and inhale. Nothing. I try again. Something faint. I tear off the corner of the front section and do something that I haven’t done since I was a child: I bite off a little piece of the newsprint. I chew. Mamma’s voice rings in my head, “She’s at it again! Will you look? She’s chewing on newsprint! Pappy, get that out of her mouth. What kind of girl am I raisin’ here? My child does not eat dirt.”
“It’s not dirt, darlin,’ it’s my Op-Ed column,” he says with a chuckle.
I spit out the wet ball of paper into my cupped hand. I realize that no matter how terrible or trying my experiences have been in the news business, it will always be some sort of sustenance for me, a steady supply of nourishment and fulfillment.
Destiny—maybe that’s the word I can’t get my tongue around.
Twenty years have passed, it’s 7 o’clock in the morning, and, now, I’m standing on my own two feet. I pad out to the entry hall of my apartment building (silk robe, white terry-cloth slippers) and hope that, somehow, the New York Times will smell like the back shop, like Granddaddy, like home. I press my nose and lips to the almost translucent gray sheet of “A1” and inhale. Nothing. I try again. Something faint. I tear off the corner of the front section and do something that I haven’t done since I was a child: I bite off a little piece of the newsprint. I chew. Mamma’s voice rings in my head, “She’s at it again! Will you look? She’s chewing on newsprint! Pappy, get that out of her mouth. What kind of girl am I raisin’ here? My child does not eat dirt.”
“It’s not dirt, darlin,’ it’s my Op-Ed column,” he says with a chuckle.
I spit out the wet ball of paper into my cupped hand. I realize that no matter how terrible or trying my experiences have been in the news business, it will always be some sort of sustenance for me, a steady supply of nourishment and fulfillment.
Destiny—maybe that’s the word I can’t get my tongue around.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Dreams
"Dreams come true; without that possibility, nature would not incite us to have them."
--John Updike
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Extra! Extra!
I did it! With--and only with--y'all's help. Many, many thanks to all my readers.
FICTION: DEBUT.
BELLE OF NEW YORK, about a beautiful Southern Debutante who comes to New York and lands a job in the mosh pit news room of a highly conservative cable network while reveling in the hedonisitic pleasures of the city, based on the blog BELLE IN THE BIG APPLE, was sold to Sarah McGrath at Scribner, by Bill Contardi at Brandt & Hochman (world rights acquired).
Looks like I'll be staying in the Big Apple after all... Now, all I have to do is convince Southern Boy to move up here with me.
FICTION: DEBUT.
BELLE OF NEW YORK, about a beautiful Southern Debutante who comes to New York and lands a job in the mosh pit news room of a highly conservative cable network while reveling in the hedonisitic pleasures of the city, based on the blog BELLE IN THE BIG APPLE, was sold to Sarah McGrath at Scribner, by Bill Contardi at Brandt & Hochman (world rights acquired).
Looks like I'll be staying in the Big Apple after all... Now, all I have to do is convince Southern Boy to move up here with me.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Ease
“This is it,” Suze said, her tone much like that of my older sister. I knew that she wanted to sound out her definitive vision of me and my life but, she held back, she knew that I could hear the muddle of mischief and disbelief in her voice. “L-O-V-E, love—you love the man. Don’t deny it.” The more authoritative she sounded, the more she wanted me to substantiate her claims.
“I’m not denying anything,” I responded contentedly. I held the phone in one hand and the stem of my wine glass in the other. Our five o’clock cocktail ritual had somewhat changed since Suze had gotten married, popped out a son and moved to Long Island. Instead of the two of us sharing a bottle of wine on my terrace, I nursed a glass and looked out my kitchen window as she breastfed the baby in her living room and sipped a Jamba Juice smoothie.
“Listen to you! You’re so calm and assured and— Shit! The baby just bit my nipple. Can you hold on while I switch boobs?”
Aaaah… The trials and tribulations of having a lactating friend…
“I’m back! Are you there? Belle?”
“Still here.”
“Anyway, I was saying that you’re more calm, more private—is ‘serene’ an appropriate word for a 25 year-old?”
“You’re right, everything is different, easier, you know? Things just fall into place whereas before, with the others, I felt like I had to work so hard. Now I realize that I had to put forth all that effort because it was wrong, the guys were wrong, we were wrong together—”
“Have you ever seen a bleeding nipple? Shit, I wish I could show you mine right now—looks like they’ve been through a meat-grinder.”
“Back to serenity…”
“Yeah, come on, talk to me. Tell me about the little things, the sweet stuff. Christ, at this point I’d be happy to hear about anything that takes my mind off of these giant lactating footballs that the doctor calls breasts.”
“Well, he writes me love letters,” I began, suddenly shy.
“That’s it— you have to read me one.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Suze. It’s kind of private and—”
“Whatever. You know the condition of my nipples, I can know the state of your relationship.”
“Fine. Here goes. This is an email that I woke up to this morning.”
Belle,
As I climb in bed tonight my thoughts are completely consumed by you, clearly that's no surprise, as this is the way it is each and every night. But tonight it's different, tonight I'm not thinking about the way my hand fits around the back of your neck as I pull you close, run my fingers through your hair... your nose gently brushing my cheek... until, finally my lips find yours.
Clearly I have thought about this before.
Tonight I go to sleep worried, troubled as I think of my love in even the slightest discomfort, discouraged that you are so far away, that there is nothing I can do to comfort you, that these futile words are my only offering. Frustration. I find myself in a situation where I am out of control- I want to do something, I want to fix it (this what I do, I fix things) I want to fix you- I want to hold you close and make everything ok. Alas, I can't. Rather I lie here a thousand miles, pulling my covers tight, wrapping my arms around nothing, saying a prayer for you, my baby... Then, just before sleep comes, I pull the sheets a little closer, whisper I LOVE YOU but no one is there to hear it... I sigh, and think of you one last time. Good night, my sweet.
"Killing me, killing me," Suze said in what was her shorthand way of expressing unmitigated approval.
"Everything with him just makes sense. It's easy."
"He's Southern, you're Southern-- The baby just barfed on my new cashmere sweater. Can we talk tomorrow? Same time, same place?"
“I’m not denying anything,” I responded contentedly. I held the phone in one hand and the stem of my wine glass in the other. Our five o’clock cocktail ritual had somewhat changed since Suze had gotten married, popped out a son and moved to Long Island. Instead of the two of us sharing a bottle of wine on my terrace, I nursed a glass and looked out my kitchen window as she breastfed the baby in her living room and sipped a Jamba Juice smoothie.
“Listen to you! You’re so calm and assured and— Shit! The baby just bit my nipple. Can you hold on while I switch boobs?”
Aaaah… The trials and tribulations of having a lactating friend…
“I’m back! Are you there? Belle?”
“Still here.”
“Anyway, I was saying that you’re more calm, more private—is ‘serene’ an appropriate word for a 25 year-old?”
“You’re right, everything is different, easier, you know? Things just fall into place whereas before, with the others, I felt like I had to work so hard. Now I realize that I had to put forth all that effort because it was wrong, the guys were wrong, we were wrong together—”
“Have you ever seen a bleeding nipple? Shit, I wish I could show you mine right now—looks like they’ve been through a meat-grinder.”
“Back to serenity…”
“Yeah, come on, talk to me. Tell me about the little things, the sweet stuff. Christ, at this point I’d be happy to hear about anything that takes my mind off of these giant lactating footballs that the doctor calls breasts.”
“Well, he writes me love letters,” I began, suddenly shy.
“That’s it— you have to read me one.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Suze. It’s kind of private and—”
“Whatever. You know the condition of my nipples, I can know the state of your relationship.”
“Fine. Here goes. This is an email that I woke up to this morning.”
Belle,
As I climb in bed tonight my thoughts are completely consumed by you, clearly that's no surprise, as this is the way it is each and every night. But tonight it's different, tonight I'm not thinking about the way my hand fits around the back of your neck as I pull you close, run my fingers through your hair... your nose gently brushing my cheek... until, finally my lips find yours.
Clearly I have thought about this before.
Tonight I go to sleep worried, troubled as I think of my love in even the slightest discomfort, discouraged that you are so far away, that there is nothing I can do to comfort you, that these futile words are my only offering. Frustration. I find myself in a situation where I am out of control- I want to do something, I want to fix it (this what I do, I fix things) I want to fix you- I want to hold you close and make everything ok. Alas, I can't. Rather I lie here a thousand miles, pulling my covers tight, wrapping my arms around nothing, saying a prayer for you, my baby... Then, just before sleep comes, I pull the sheets a little closer, whisper I LOVE YOU but no one is there to hear it... I sigh, and think of you one last time. Good night, my sweet.
"Killing me, killing me," Suze said in what was her shorthand way of expressing unmitigated approval.
"Everything with him just makes sense. It's easy."
"He's Southern, you're Southern-- The baby just barfed on my new cashmere sweater. Can we talk tomorrow? Same time, same place?"
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Everything She Does Is Magic
It’s Dolce & Gabbana and black and slides over the right bits, conceals the rest. The breasts, the taut belly, the thick ass—the dress makes a promise that I’m more than happy not to keep. But, this is fine. This is written explicitly in my contract. I’m to be a young face, a ready laugh, a woman with a flute of champagne always in hand. Nothing more. THE BOLD SENTENCES (page four) of the staff handbook are meant to scare.
NO PROLONGED CONVERSATIONS
NO GRATUITIOUS FLIRTING
NO EXITING THE EVENT W GUEST/S
INAPPROPRIATE HOSTESSES WILL BE DISMISSED AFTER ______ EVENT
I’m the mystery girl—the paid mystery girl—at the party. The corporate sponsors are worried—the event lacks something. They form a pin-striped huddle and discuss, rubbing their fingers together like drunk Frenchmen on the terrace of the L'Avenue, trying to pinpoint the je ne sais quoi that might be missing.
Aha! Women! Decolletage! Perfumed wrists! Silky skin and stilettos! A sweet voice that will laugh and murmur and make you feel wanted again...
They plant me by the bar or the buffet or the stage. No one knows who I am or why I’m at the MoMa exhibit or the Botanical Garden. The buzz begins. The women in PR and the men at hedge funds whisper behind cocktail glasses and alligator clutches.
This all suits me just fine—as does the pay. Sting’s gig tonight. Maybe he’ll leave me and the other girls a handsome tip. I’ll adjust my dress just so, do the smoky eyes, twist my hair into a blonde chignon… a little piece of magic weaving in and out of the guests, catching their gaze just long enough and then out the door…
Every little thing she does is magic
Every she do just turns me on...
NO PROLONGED CONVERSATIONS
NO GRATUITIOUS FLIRTING
NO EXITING THE EVENT W GUEST/S
INAPPROPRIATE HOSTESSES WILL BE DISMISSED AFTER ______ EVENT
I’m the mystery girl—the paid mystery girl—at the party. The corporate sponsors are worried—the event lacks something. They form a pin-striped huddle and discuss, rubbing their fingers together like drunk Frenchmen on the terrace of the L'Avenue, trying to pinpoint the je ne sais quoi that might be missing.
Aha! Women! Decolletage! Perfumed wrists! Silky skin and stilettos! A sweet voice that will laugh and murmur and make you feel wanted again...
They plant me by the bar or the buffet or the stage. No one knows who I am or why I’m at the MoMa exhibit or the Botanical Garden. The buzz begins. The women in PR and the men at hedge funds whisper behind cocktail glasses and alligator clutches.
This all suits me just fine—as does the pay. Sting’s gig tonight. Maybe he’ll leave me and the other girls a handsome tip. I’ll adjust my dress just so, do the smoky eyes, twist my hair into a blonde chignon… a little piece of magic weaving in and out of the guests, catching their gaze just long enough and then out the door…
Every little thing she does is magic
Every she do just turns me on...
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Dust
Girl’s night on the town and C. looks like a Hoover vacuum, coke on any flat surface are her dust and debris. I called “Mimi” to come and save me, talk to me, sip vodka with me instead of snorting dust with the rest. She was at home, watching movies w. her new beau. Smart girl.
Maybe I’ll stay in tonight.
Maybe I’ll stay in tonight.
Friday, November 11, 2005
All in a Name
I’m afraid to move from
New York City.
Three little words. They cite nothing more than geographical location (as opposed to the ever-important, “I love you”), and yet they invoke awe, envy, disgust, cynicism and wonderment like nothing else. NO ONE harbors neutral feelings about the Big Apple. I’m addicted to this knee-jerk reaction. It all began when I studied in Buenos Aires and then moved to Rome only to extend my exotic city tour to Palma de Mallorca and then to Sevilla. Automatic respect—“street cred,” if you’ll allow a white girl from the South to use such an expression—comes w. these legendary cities. I’m hooked.
There’s that. And, too, there are nights out on the town w. photography exhibitions and dinner of tempura-fried haricot verts and cabrales steak salad (last night) or champagne and Italian men at “Da Silvano” (2 nights ago) or dancing until dawn at “Cain” and “Marquee” (tonight). Everything I’ve cited is immediate gratification for the senses.
I taste it.
I drink it.
I watch their eyes widen when I say it.
“New York City.”
So, what would I do if I were in Birmingham, Alabama or Duluth, Georgia? Maybe I’d try a little harder because there wasn’t a name to sustain me. Perhaps I’d write more (and imbibe less) if I were further removed from the sins of Dante’s seven circles of hell. Or, maybe I’d just be bored.
I’m biting my lip. I just looked away from the screen. I can’t believe that I’m considering a life elsewhere.
New York City.
Three little words. They cite nothing more than geographical location (as opposed to the ever-important, “I love you”), and yet they invoke awe, envy, disgust, cynicism and wonderment like nothing else. NO ONE harbors neutral feelings about the Big Apple. I’m addicted to this knee-jerk reaction. It all began when I studied in Buenos Aires and then moved to Rome only to extend my exotic city tour to Palma de Mallorca and then to Sevilla. Automatic respect—“street cred,” if you’ll allow a white girl from the South to use such an expression—comes w. these legendary cities. I’m hooked.
There’s that. And, too, there are nights out on the town w. photography exhibitions and dinner of tempura-fried haricot verts and cabrales steak salad (last night) or champagne and Italian men at “Da Silvano” (2 nights ago) or dancing until dawn at “Cain” and “Marquee” (tonight). Everything I’ve cited is immediate gratification for the senses.
I taste it.
I drink it.
I watch their eyes widen when I say it.
“New York City.”
So, what would I do if I were in Birmingham, Alabama or Duluth, Georgia? Maybe I’d try a little harder because there wasn’t a name to sustain me. Perhaps I’d write more (and imbibe less) if I were further removed from the sins of Dante’s seven circles of hell. Or, maybe I’d just be bored.
I’m biting my lip. I just looked away from the screen. I can’t believe that I’m considering a life elsewhere.
Wednesday, November 9, 2005
Up North
My hair still smells of chicory and pulled pork and my tongue is thick w. vowels and southernisms but I'm FINALLY back in the city--settled in my little apartment in SoHo! Allow me an hour or so to unpack and then'll I'll write a post...
Sunday, November 6, 2005
Walking Uterus
"Almost twenty-six, Belle," my cousin intoned, downing the last of his Busch beer. He looked out over the stone terrace, to the hills of Vestavia and let out a long, hollow belch. "When are you gonna pop out a few babies for the family to enjoy?"
Back down South for a long weekend... I've crossed the Mason-Dixon and, once again, been relegated to the status of a walking uterus.
Back to the Big Apple on Tuesday...
Back down South for a long weekend... I've crossed the Mason-Dixon and, once again, been relegated to the status of a walking uterus.
Back to the Big Apple on Tuesday...
Thursday, November 3, 2005
Everything She Does Is Magic
It’s Dolce & Gabbana and black and slides over the right bits, conceals the rest. The breasts, the taut belly, the thick ass—the dress makes a promise that I’m more than happy not to keep. But, this is fine. This is written explicitly in my contract. I’m to be a young face, a ready laugh, a woman with a flute of champagne always in hand. Nothing more. THE BOLD SENTENCES (page four) of the staff handbook are meant to scare.
NO PROLONGED CONVERSATIONS
NO GRATUITIOUS FLIRTING
NO EXITING THE EVENT W GUEST/S
INAPPROPRIATE HOSTESSES WILL BE DISMISSED AFTER ______ EVENT
I’m the mystery girl—the paid mystery girl—at the party. The corporate sponsors are worried—the event lacks something. They form a pin-striped huddle and discuss, rubbing their fingers together like drunk Frenchmen on the terrace of the Flore, trying to pinpoint the je ne sais quoi that might be missing.
Aha! Women! Decolletage! Perfumed wrists! Silky skin and stilettos! A sweet voice that will laugh and murmur and make you feel wanted again...
They plant me by the bar or the buffet or the stage. No one knows who I am or why I’m at the MoMa exhibit or the Botanical Garden. The buzz begins. The women in PR and the men at hedge funds whisper behind cocktail glasses and alligator clutches.
This all suits me just fine—as does the pay. Sting’s gig tonight. Maybe he’ll leave me and the other girls a handsome tip. I’ll adjust my dress just so, do the smoky eyes, twist my hair into a blonde chignon… a little piece of magic weaving in and out of the guests, catching their gaze just long enough and then out the door…
Every little thing she does is magic
Every she do just turns me on...
NO PROLONGED CONVERSATIONS
NO GRATUITIOUS FLIRTING
NO EXITING THE EVENT W GUEST/S
INAPPROPRIATE HOSTESSES WILL BE DISMISSED AFTER ______ EVENT
I’m the mystery girl—the paid mystery girl—at the party. The corporate sponsors are worried—the event lacks something. They form a pin-striped huddle and discuss, rubbing their fingers together like drunk Frenchmen on the terrace of the Flore, trying to pinpoint the je ne sais quoi that might be missing.
Aha! Women! Decolletage! Perfumed wrists! Silky skin and stilettos! A sweet voice that will laugh and murmur and make you feel wanted again...
They plant me by the bar or the buffet or the stage. No one knows who I am or why I’m at the MoMa exhibit or the Botanical Garden. The buzz begins. The women in PR and the men at hedge funds whisper behind cocktail glasses and alligator clutches.
This all suits me just fine—as does the pay. Sting’s gig tonight. Maybe he’ll leave me and the other girls a handsome tip. I’ll adjust my dress just so, do the smoky eyes, twist my hair into a blonde chignon… a little piece of magic weaving in and out of the guests, catching their gaze just long enough and then out the door…
Every little thing she does is magic
Every she do just turns me on...
Wednesday, November 2, 2005
Holding Pattern
Static.
Circular.
Awaiting clearance.
I’m in a holding pattern.
There are worse things, trust me, I know. Long, leisurely mornings w. coffee and the Times, noontime walks around Gramercy, Juilliard concerts in late afternoon, dinner and a bottle of Cabernet w. the neighbors on my terrace. I’m enjoying the details of fall in the city that most New Yorkers are too busy to notice. Halloween Day I was able to stroll around the city—“un flaneur” the French would call me—with no destination in mind. My sole purpose was to take in the costumes, the smells, collect autumn leaves (the virgin leaves—the ones yet to be trampled by excited, sugar-crazed eight year-olds)…
But, I’m ready for the next challenge. I want this period of wait to be over, to hear the good and the bad news and then move on w. my life. Make your decision—swift and decisive!—and let’s move forward. This plane needs to land at La Guardia so I can check all that baggage and make a new life for myself in the city.
Circular.
Awaiting clearance.
I’m in a holding pattern.
There are worse things, trust me, I know. Long, leisurely mornings w. coffee and the Times, noontime walks around Gramercy, Juilliard concerts in late afternoon, dinner and a bottle of Cabernet w. the neighbors on my terrace. I’m enjoying the details of fall in the city that most New Yorkers are too busy to notice. Halloween Day I was able to stroll around the city—“un flaneur” the French would call me—with no destination in mind. My sole purpose was to take in the costumes, the smells, collect autumn leaves (the virgin leaves—the ones yet to be trampled by excited, sugar-crazed eight year-olds)…
But, I’m ready for the next challenge. I want this period of wait to be over, to hear the good and the bad news and then move on w. my life. Make your decision—swift and decisive!—and let’s move forward. This plane needs to land at La Guardia so I can check all that baggage and make a new life for myself in the city.
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