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.