The Key

I nearly threw up this morning.

It was not, unfortunately, the result of some wild party the night before--in fact, yesterday afternoon I gave away all of my alcohol (and my cast-iron skillets) to some guy who lives on the third floor. It was just that...

Okay.

The last couple of days, people have been coming to help. My mother came to cart off my paintings, HousingWorks came for everything they could carry, Elena showed up in the middle of the freezing rain last night for my television, and the movers were here at 6:50am this morning for whatever was left.

Realizing that I had, predictably, seriously underestimated the amount of time that it would take to truly clear out my apartment, I sent them on to New Canaan without me. And then, for about 90 seconds, I knew for sure that I needed to vomit. Emptying my empty stomach seemed like the only way to fix my head. I leaned out of my window, gasping for air. I kept thinking about this amazing woman I met ages ago, and how I finally get how she felt every day. Instead of calling her, I called Nick.

Nick is very good at times like those.

Four hours later (once I had decided not to do a half-assed job, I went seriously whole-assed on the place) I left Washington Heights for the last time.

I mean, really--when would I ever go back?

It was a gorgeous day for it, though: bright, sunny, not especially cold at all. I almost swung by the Cloisters, but above and beyond my ridiculously heavy bag and three hours of sleep, it just wouldn't have fit. I'd only been up there a tiny handful of times: my time here was more about the pounding music and the grime and the brilliant colors and the sudden smell of whatever it is those street vendors sell that nearly knocks me off of my feet every time.

If you live in real Manhattan, you are thinking of the acrid smoke from hot dog stands, or that maddeningly sweet scent that surrounds the disappointing roasted nuts. If you live in Philadelphia, you are thinking of something that simply smells like food. This is not that. This is some crazy, vicious hot oil smell that I don't even think of as food-like, but it sucker-punches me with a sudden craving for whatever it is, no matter how hungry I may not be just then.

Walking through, I got to be an outsider one last time, because I fit in far more easily in Paris's 16th than I ever did on 186th and Amsterdam. There was never any ambiguity: one night I had a cold, and decided to walk to the pharmacy two blocks away. Now, I know that the intersection one block away is a major drug corner. It's stoplightless and streetlightless, with the requisite sneakers hanging on the power lines and guys in puffy hooded coats just standing there--not to mention all the beaters and (go figure) minivans pulling up to them, pausing, and then U-turning away all night.

It was dark out, so I did think about going down a block and coming back up, but for crying out loud, it was, what, 7:30? 8:00? It's not the '80's anymore; we're supposed to be safe until at least 11pm or so.

One of the puffy guys, whose back was to me, obviously heard me coming. As he turned, he began with, "Hey mami, you need some--" and then saw me clearly. And said, I kid you not, "Oh. Sorry, Miss."

The dealer apologized for considering selling me drugs.

I've been stared at and pondered for over a year now--everyone is curious to know what I'm doing there, and where I really live. One girl used me as an example to her friend of what a "real white person" looks like. "She heard you!" the friend hissed, when I tried not to laugh. I was stared at and pondered on the way to the subway today. I don't know what it will be like when it no longer happens: when I am just another person who lives nearby, albeit one with an exotic accent.

I said "Hi" to the elevator guy at the 1 station. I think he knew what I meant.

I got to Grand Central and stopped off for my last Hot & Crusty bagel (whole wheat, with butter) for at least three months, which is probably about how long it has been since my last one, but that was not the point of the exercise. Miraculously, although it was nearly 1:00, it was the freshest one I have had in ages--perfect.

I got to New Canaan and discovered that international mail forwarding is a snap, but I'm starting to wish that I were moving to Milwaukee or something, because every time I tell someone where I'm going, they get all excited. Which is nice (don't get me wrong), but I wouldn't mind feeling less conspicuous every now and then--especially now, when it's getting so overwhelmingly real.

I kept playing with my key chain the whole way back to my parents' house. For the first time since I've had keys at all, I only have one. There is one lock in the entire world that I am entitled to open.

Now I just have to get there.

Poetry

As you may recall, I was all relieved a couple of weeks ago to have chosen a bar for my last Bon Voyage party. And I was so sure of it that it didn't really bother me at first when they weren't answering their phone. It was a fairly new place, so it's not like they were all that busy; we could probably just show up if it came to that.

By Wednesday, though, I was getting testy. I mean, the place hasn't even made it onto citysearch yet; and if they print up cards with a phone number that they don't answer, they never will, right? Right?

So I swung by. The first of the two giant notices on the door was a general restraining order preventing anyone from removing anything from the property. The second announced that the place had been shut down for endangering the health and safety of a large number of people.

Cool.

I decided to go back to basics--I've been so concerned with putting together all of the pieces that I've been ignoring my favorite bar just because it's, well, tiny. I did call them, expecting to hear that they didn't do groups, and to be mocked a smidge just for asking. I was prepared for mocking; I was not prepared for the friendly manager to say, "Sure, we'll put reserved signs on a couple of the back tables." Especially since he then hung up without taking my name.

I mean--I know they don't do that, so he was obviously lying, but he did it so nicely that I didn't feel mocked. I didn't feel blown off enough to justify going somewhere else, is what I'm saying. And he did say that the crowd would be thin around 9:00, so....

We basically took over the back of the place, starting with one tiny table and expanding like one of those sponges that turn into dinosaurs.

It was wonderful--if you were there, thank you so much! I felt like an ADD kid for most of it; I spent the first hour or so without ever getting to finish a single conversation. People I haven't seen in years, people I'd just met, and Andrea bearing a red velvet cake from Buttercup Bakery, some of which ended up in Mary's hair (for symmetry) made it an amazing night. Actually, the cake got everywhere, but yes, Andrea, I did bring the last slice back with me. I called it "breakfast."

As a bonus, my team won both games of pool we played--one lamely, when Elena scratched on the eight-ball, but a later one for real, when I sank this incredibly elegant winning shot that no one actually saw.

It was really a nice way to go out. I highly recommend it. I also strongly suggest that everyone pester Mary about the appropriately-sideburned guy I left her with at the table. You know--after I got the icing out of her hair.

Fallout

I am at that awkward stage of moving where the place just looks a million times more full. I mean, it doesn't look like I am ready to go at all.

There might be a reason for that: every twenty minutes or so I remember one last thing that I meant to do a couple of weeks ago. Unfortunately, most of those things require an initial step that I cannot do at the moment when I am remembering the secondary step, because I am clinically disorganized.

The big things are in place, I think. I have movers, for one thing, and Mary has promised to come get my DVD player on Sunday, which will not make the slightest dent in the amount of stuff that I still have, but is a nice thing to include on my mental checklist when I get stressed.

And HousingWorks is set to pick up everything but my ridiculous bookcase, which the movers have offered to take to Goodwill separately (although they sound really nervous about it). I have boxes, bubblewrap, tape, and a big black marker; the only thing I need now is some determination, and maybe Elena. She's really good with the whole organization thing. She's the one who always figures out how to split the bill, and what the tip should be.

But I have cleared off the bookcase (and cleared a path to the door), and that makes me feel obscurely better. I mean: I have some bona fide piles now, even if I am not entirely sure what I will do with them. Piles are a good start, right?

Meanwhile, my day planner is alarmingly full, especially given the angry head cold I feel coming on. I am so jealous of Nick, whose company just sent people over to pack up his stuff and cart it off to Paris for him. I need a company, or people, or maybe both.

I need to stop feeling sorry for myself, because this is going to be the coolest thing ever.

To that end, I have spent all the time that I have not spent fretting looking through wedding magazines and websites. I don't have a date, size, or location yet, but I sure as hell know what everyone will be wearing.

Come to think of it, my planning of our wedding is starting to sound alarmingly like my planning of my move.

Red Herring

Today was the first time in a long time that I have not been tense on my way to the airport. I knew how to get there, I had plenty of time, my bags were all but empty, and since I will be coming back to Paris in two weeks, it doesn't much matter what I might have forgotten. Even the thick, dense fog couldn't put a crimp in my day.

But, hey, you know how, before you even get to the check-in counter, they have some "greeter" who asks you if you packed your own bags, gives you a customs form, and then waves you through the line? That woman had it in for me.

I have no idea what first set her off, although I did notice that she got a little more aggressive when she spotted the recent claim check stuck to my passport, and even more aggressive when she attempted to confirm my assertion that my luggage tag had my name and address (it actually had Nick's).

"How long have you known this person?" she sneered. I had referred to him as my fiancé. What kind of a girl did she take me for?

She walked away for a few minutes, during which other passengers were rerouted around me. "Now I just have to ask you some more security questions," she began, and we were off again. "Who packed the bags? Where did you pack them? Whom, exactly, do they belong to? How did you book the tickets? Why are you returning to the United States? Do you have any battery-operated items? Tell me about this iPod®--has anyone asked to borrow it?"

I was nice the whole time. My voice stayed level, I maintained eye contact, I was honest, and I was calm.

And the traitorous bitch red-flagged me anyway.

I mean that literally: she took three tiny red stickers, and attached one each to my passport and my checked bag. Then she walked me over to the check-in counter and stayed with me while I got my boarding pass, to which she attached the third sticker (discreetly, inside, so that I would not notice it easily). It occurred to me later that if I were a smuggler, her presence would also have prevented me from removing the sticker from my checked bag before actually checking it.

Clever.

So. At the X-ray machines, I was of course pulled aside and patted down as soon as security saw my stickered passport. And when I got to the gate, I was pulled aside again, and both my bags and my person were searched again, quite thoroughly.

You know--in case I had picked up some C4 between security and the gate.

Actually, what I had picked up was a bottle of water, because I dehydrate easily and it is not a pretty sight. As per recent international security regulations, I got it about three steps from the gate. "Is this okay?" my latest patter-downer asked her colleague. "She got it here."

"I don't think so," he sniffed.

"You'll have to leave your water," she told me.

Can you say "last straw"?

"Everyone here has a beverage they got at the gate," I snarled in French, waving at the sixty cleared passengers, all taking simultaneous sips. This only resulted in the confiscation of the Perrier® that the guy behind me was drinking. Sorry, sir.

In my head, I practiced I will leave it if you return my two euros; Am I a second-class citizen just because some Nazi at check-in put this sticker on my passport?; If I had bought perfume, liquor, or makeup at the duty-free shop would you have taken it?; I have the receipt right here--do you think that this is some elaborate scheme wherein I snuck one bottle through the first bag search, bought another, and switched them?; If I had removed this sticker before you saw it would I be allowed to keep my stupid Evian® like everyone else?

Out loud, I settled for "Can I please talk to a supervisor?" and that turned out to be all that I needed.

Because obviously you can keep the water that you buy once you are through security--I check the changing regulations before every trip. It's the morons who still don't know that you have to take off your shoes at the X-rays--and fail to notice that everyone ahead of them is doing it--who should be stickered, not we conscientious travellers.

The flight was so wonderful that the last hurdle completely blindsided me.

When I headed to the "Nothing to Declare" customs line at JFK, the agent glanced at my (still-stickered) passport. "Great!" he chirped. "Just step over here for a second and talk to this guy."

I've heard that before.

"I'm from the Department of Agriculture, and we're doing a survey today," he announced, with no hint of shame. "Do you happen to have any plants, animals, dairy products, or foods with you today?"

I couldn't stop it in time.

"That's a very unusual definition of the word 'survey,' since you have my written answer to the same question in your hand," I snapped.

Things deteriorated, obviously. "Well, I should warn you that we're going to scan your bag, and if you have anything that you haven't mentioned, we'll have to fine you."

"I would probably be concerned, then, if I had any of those things."

"You didn't happen to bring back any foie gras?"

"I barely brought back my own clothes."

"Did you hold onto any of the food from the plane?"

"Have you ever tried that stuff?"

"Did you--"

"I picked up a Toblerone® at the duty-free. I didn't think to declare it. If we're going to argue about it, I will sit down on this floor right now and eat the whole damn thing, and then you may scan my bags."

Three minutes later, my candy bar and I were in a cab.

Attitude Day

I swear: for the most part, I think that travellers who complain about French rudeness are either reacting to unfamiliar customs, or had been a bit rude themselves, and were just witnessing retaliation.

Apparently, on Saturdays, I am wrong.

Admittedly, the first incident was partly my fault. Nick and I paused during a long, rambling walk to sit in a café overlooking the Luxembourg gardens (isn't that just how you picture us?), and the chairs were impossible. Not only did they have ridiculously long arms, but the armrests curved forward again as they went down to the seat, so that by the time they joined the seat, the two were the same length. And my chair was backed up against the wall. Getting up was enough of an adventure, but I misjudged when I sat back down, and managed to bump into the only full glass left on the table, which was my hot cinnamon milk (I'm trying all of their hot milks on this trip).

Milk and puns went all over the place, and the waiter was nowhere to be seen, leaving us staring across a milky table at each other for a few shocked minutes until Nick went for napkins himself. By the time the waiter returned, we had mostly cleaned it up ourselves, but Nick felt that the waiter was rather brusque all the same, throwing a towel and making faces.

Under those circumstances I might have been brusque, as well, but the incident turned out to be nothing but a foreshadow of our waiter at dinner.

There's this great little place up near the Sorbonne that has a wonderful fondue prix-fixe: you get a pre-dinner drink, fondue for two, and then either chocolate fondue, or a dessert of your choice (Nick's father is trying all of their ice cream sundaes on this trip). The first time that we went, Nick warned me that they would simply not bring anything else until we had both finished our appératifs--that is the sort of French service that Americans often feel is rude, but is actually expected and appropriate behavior here. Consequently, if you ever feel that you are being rushed out of a café or restaurant in France, it is appropriate to be disgusted, and never return.

Now, I know that we were early (7:00!), and I know that the waiter aspired to fit an extra seating in at our table, and I know that he heard us speaking English and figured that we wouldn't know any better. But my hackles were up as soon as he brought the wine out halfway through the appératifs, and when that was followed immediately by the meal, he had made some enemies.

To guarantee an insulting tip, he did not have to ask us, after we had paid, if we would like anything else, because he had another reservation. But he did it anyway.

Luckily, I have brought over most of the fondue set that Nick gave me last year, so we are completely prepared to boycott La Piano Muette until our feelings are no longer hurt. And I suggest that you do the same.

To round off the evening, the cab driver who brought us home did not even remotely acknowledge our quite generous tip (they really always do, here), so we have decided to spend our Saturdays in from now on. It might be catching, after all, and we rather enjoy being polite to each other.

Franglais

I have been so preoccupied with improving my French that it had not really occurred to me until yesterday just how difficult it must be to come here without any. Nick's parents are very brave, is what I'm saying.

"I figured out why we never found the restaurant last night," his mother announced. "Your father finally confessed to thinking that gauche meant 'right.'" Seriously--that'll make for a long day.

Fortunately, the new lost city exhibit (they found an Egyptian city under a Greek bay, and brought it to Paris--wouldn't you?) had English translations. Unfortunately, it also had French people, so we were in for a bit of a cultural education.

You know how, in a crowded museum, you kind of stand back from what you want to look at, so that other people can stand at about the same distance, and everyone can see? The French take that as an invitation to step directly in front of you.

It happened to me at the airport, too--I stepped aside to let a woman pass through the line, and the guy behind me walked right around me. It was in JFK, so in theory I could have used the chance to expand his cultural horizons, but I chickened out. I'm definitely too timid, then, to try it in France, where this sort of thing is apparently completely normal.

Anyway.

After a few minutes at the Louvre's balcony café (lovely, by the way), we headed over to Chaumette, which a mild illness (mine) had prevented us from visiting the night before. And that was when the mess started.

Chaumette is run by two men, who spend the whole night running around like beheaded chickens. One remembered us from the other night, but since the other one seated us, we all ended up with English menus. The second man, noticing this, apologized profusely, and offered French menus...to Nick and me. There was a localized chaos of languages, translations, apologies, and repetitions, until it only seemed appropriate when the group next to us capped off the evening by accidentally lighting a napkin on fire.

Nick's father promptly made friends with them--mostly in English, but as the night wore on, he was more willing to try out his sporadic French words.

"Fiancés!" he crowed, pointing to us. And then, "Parents!" gesturing to himself and Nick's mother.

"With a little wine, he speaks French," I told the waiter.

"He should drink more," he deadpanned.

Valentine's Day

For the most part, I think the French have started speaking more clearly. We got through a whole dinner last night without having to once resort to helpless "Pardon?"'s even once--although we still have some work to do, because we almost didn't get into the restaurant at all.

Nick tried to make a Valentine's Day reservation at La Chaumette, an unbelievably wonderful restaurant that is even more unbelievably located just down the street. Unfortunately, the language barrier prevented him from understanding exactly why the reservation was being refused, so we decided to simply go in person and try to straighten it out. We had a backup plan, of course, but there's really not much that can substitute for this place, so, fingers crossed, we headed over around 8:00.

The restaurant was almost entirely empty...and, apparently, entirely booked. "I'm so sorry," the host said. "There's really nothing."

I decided to go for broke, and pointed to Nick. "He asked me to marry him this morning. This is the only place that we want to eat."

The Digression

Oh, right.

Nick proposed almost as soon as I walked through the door. For those of you who know him and are scratching your heads, I have been asked to make it very clear that the fact that it was Valentine's Day had absolutely nothing to do with it.

In fact, he had planned to wait a bit. And he had probably planned to let me notice the ring myself, but he got so excited that when I lifted up the chocolate box to take a better look, he pulled it out of my hand. "There's a ring in it!" he all but shouted--and then did the one-knee thing.

"Ben and I had a very similar moment," my mother told me when I called with the news. Apparently, while she had helped to pick out her ring, they had planned a whole big "presentation," just to still have the moment. "When we got into the car on the way to dinner, he just burst out with 'Do you want the ring now?' and I shouted 'Yes!'"

And I remember that when my stepbrother had his proposal all planned and the reservations made, he found that he simply couldn't wait, and popped the question in the middle of an argument, instead. Somehow I have always thought that that was just about the most romantic thing I have ever heard.

And so, particularly in light of both of those marriages, I've decided to see this as an excellent omen.

Back at the Restaurant

The French are really, really into love. As soon as I offered to show the host the ring (it needs to be sized), he whipped out his seating chart and began talking a mile a minute. All we could catch was that they really were horribly full, but he could shift some things and seat us in an hour and a half, if that was okay.

Since the restaurant is so close to the apartment, that was fine with me, and I told him so, but as we left, Nick suggested that we just go somewhere else. We had gotten about 20 yards toward that goal when we heard shouting and turned to see the host sprinting after us.

"I was saying I can seat you now!" he called. The fact that he was still speaking French was the only thing that saved me from utter embarrassment--obviously he hadn't given up on us yet. "You thought I said wait an hour and a half," he guessed. "No, no--please eat now; it is just that we will need the table in an hour and a half, so I am sorry, but you may be a bit rushed."

That'll do.

Nick let himself be talked into pink champagne, and was stunned to discover that it was really quite good. And my veal nearly made my eyes pop out of my head on the first bite--and Nick's, as well, when I reluctantly offered him a taste. I know that I had a reason for leaving one bite on the plate, but try as I might this morning, I cannot think of any possible excuse for such an oversight.

At a certain point, we were told that one party had cancelled, and that we could stay as long as we liked, but by then we were so boxed in (it's a tiny place, and they are aggressive about using every inch of it) that we decided to skip dessert and call it a night. After making reservations for the next evening, of course--Nick's parents are in town.

"Wonderful!" crowed the host. "What is the name?"

Why, it's Nick's. Of course.

Couchless

Last night, I discovered that four whole people could fit onto my couch if they were so inclined. This afternoon, I no longer have a couch. How's that for a paradigm shift?

My first Bon Voyage party went off nicely. Although I overbaked the first batch of cakes, the second batch oozed gratifyingly, so at least everyone got to see what was supposed to happen. And of the two things that can go wrong with those cakes, that is by far the lesser evil.

See, this recipe involves melting butter and chocolate, and then stirring the warm mixture into eggs and sugar. "Careful," my mother remarked when we first tested the recipe. "If you pour in too much hot liquid at once, the eggs will cook."

A couple of years down the road, apparently realizing only now what a neurotic adult I have become, her favorite thing to say to me is "Relax." Seriously? Because I'm the one standing there in the middle of the night without a handy extra dozen eggs praying that I am not about to make the nastiest omelette ever.

Anyway.

Although somehow I ended up with more alcohol than I had before the party, I believe that it has helped me to get rid of some much larger items, even if my current couchless state was predestined before the event was even planned. Electronics were claimed, and end tables were pitched, and we will wait to see how much I can get rid of before the end of the month (luckily, I am only a few blocks from a Goodwill).

The main problem is that while everyone lusts after my bookcase, no one is entirely sure that they are prepared to try to take it up my two steps, down four flights of stairs (no way it goes in the elevator), and into a van that no one has arranged for yet. Andrea, honey, you still have first dibs--make a plan and it is yours.

This afternoon, though, just as promised, Glenn arrived in his family's minivan, and we figured out how to reverse IKEA's brilliant assembly processes (thank God I saved the stupid hexagonal wrench thingies). And when I got back and saw the giant hole in my living room, I finally felt like something was really done.

Red Velvet

I have finally been able to eliminate one major item from my to-do list: I have chosen the date and location of my second Bon Voyage party.

I get how people might not understand just what an accomplishment this is, but trust me: I am taking my victories where I find them at this point. I mean, seriously--I just checked my computer's calendar, and all this is getting just a little...close.

Anyway. Last night, Andrea introduced me to a fabulous newish bar with cheap and excellent drinks, space for a party, and a completely acceptable noise level. Plus, the bartender was French.

Actually, I need to take a minute to address that. Suddenly it turns out that everyone is French. My supervisor at my real job, I just discovered, was born there. "French is my mother tongue," she said. "Could you not hear my accent?" I checked around to make sure that I wasn't going crazy, and everyone agrees that while there is obviously something unusual about her speech, it does not remotely resemble a French accent. I mean--not even a little. Not even now that I know. But it's been a year and a half; how did I not know?

Mary's now-ex boss, who called me about the dream job a few weeks ago, was raised in France as well. And now this bartender. I know you notice something more when it is relevant to you, but is there anyone in this country who is not fluent in French?

"And we're right across from Buttercup!" Andrea realized at a certain point. She called it fate, since it has been her favorite forever and I have never actually been, although as it turns out I have had their work before--Andrea, do you remember when you rode to Boston with us, and brought us cupcakes? I had red velvet then, too, which makes this the third time, because the first was at Cliff's birthday party a few years back, when I was running on fumes and ended up falling asleep in a chair.

I woke up to a young man staring at me. "I feel like I should tell you," he said. "You have red velvet cake in your hair." And Nick, my dear, that was the man who was later called "smarmy," and paved the way for that fateful conversation in which Mary half-jokingly announced that you would be perfect for me. So, Nick, our relationship really began when someone brushed by me (because logistically it had to have happened that way, I swear) carrying a slice of red velvet cake.

My cupcake is now sitting on my coffee table as a kind of a promise. I have some baking to do, now, and it is well past time to get started. But if I do it tonight, then tomorrow all I have to do is roll out of bed, pick up a bit, and wait until people arrive to start eating my own signature dessert, which, while far simpler than it seems, carries an element of danger that I feel surpasses that of the cupcake. That cupcake, though, is what will keep me going: I refuse to put it back in the refrigerator, and I refuse to eat it before the batter and ice cream are done.

And I will certainly not go to sleep with it just sitting there. I have learned my lesson.

Chocolat

Believe the hype: Max Brenner's is awesome. I mean, it is a little silly--the whole "chocolate culture" involve-all-the-senses glorification of their featured ingredient inspires some eye-rolling--but one sip of my choconut martini and I was sold.

Actually. If I were allowed one more tiny nitpick, it would be the service.

Our waiter was attentive and polite and all, but Melissa and I found our jaws on the floor over and over throughout the evening. It began when Melissa asked what the soup of the day was. "Oh, God," he said, and began hemming and hawing.

"It's okay if you need to go check; there's no rush," she assured him.

"No, I know what it is! I know what it is, I just hate saying it, because I hate this soup."

Oh.

"It's corn chowder. And, I mean, it's good and all, but I found out something about corn chowder recently, so now I hate it. I found out something was in it that I didn't know was in it."

"Bacon," I guessed. I mean, it wasn't a guess. Mary, I'm not trying to generalize or stereotype, but sometimes you really can tell.

"Yes!" he squeaked. "I just like it so much better when they have a really good soup, like broccoli and cheddar! Mmmmm." I am not making this up.

Deciding that it was just a charming quirk, I asked for a recommendation once I had narrowed the drink choices down to two. I knew that there was something off when he suggested one over the other because it was "too cold for a frozen drink" (they were both frozen), but I diplomatically held up my menu and pointed out the two possibilities.

"So wait, what's in those?" he asked, leaning closer. If I wanted a recommendation from someone who had never tried the drinks, I would take a recommendation from myself. "Ew, I don't like any of those things in there," he announced. "I mean, do you?"

In the grand scheme of things, it didn't even seem like such a big deal when he carefully set knives on napkins for each of us--and walked off with our forks. The additional squeaking when we pointed this out (after our forkless salads had arrived) was harder to ignore.

But look, the place was lovely. It smells better than Hershey Park, and the chocolate is the best I have had in this country. I mean, it's entirely sweet, but somehow it is not too much--it is balanced admirably against itself somehow. And their drink menu could keep me going there for months just to try...if that were an option.

"Don't you think you're being a little silly?" Nick asks, referring to the other half of my round-trip ticket. It is dated May 31st. The thing is that it doesn't feel like a round-trip. It feels like when my last graduation date was racing toward me, or like my mother described when she was planning her wedding. You don't think about the next day; there is no next Thursday, next week, next month. There is just a date when everything stops, and you are shocked to remember that the sun will rise the next morning, or that your heart will still remember how to beat.

On the other hand, both halves of my ticket include more than an hour each in Zurich. That can be a thing to focus my mind on, a mnemonic to ensure that I remember that time will continue in a linear and orderly fashion--because at the end of May, I will get to add one more country's chocolate into my comparison base.

Bloodthirsty

I am starting to think that I am just a naturally difficult person.

There have been indications of this in the past, of course. For one thing, I got told so all the time when I was little--I thought that people were just intimidated by a bright child. And as I got older and people kept being "intimidated," I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. Sure, plenty of other people seemed to all get along with each other, and sure, I got called variations on "sarcastic" just all the time, but what does that really prove?

In retrospect, there were a couple of clear road signs that I missed. One was the way I met Mary: during our first class together, I basically called her a liar. During the second one, she called me defensive, and a friendship was born. That may not be normal.

Nor were the events during a party that I attended with her during my single days. These two guys came over and were clearly making an effort to flirt, and we were just as clearly terrifying them. I mean, it was really painful to watch. They actually looked visibly frightened, and kept whispering and pointing for ages after they finally turned tail and ran.

And in our Group Dynamics class, we somehow ended up in the "fighting" group. The other group could not get over how "negative" we all were. There were only two groups, and they were fairly randomly selected; what are the odds that one would be singing "Kumbaya" while the other was essentially toxic?

Any of these moments might have tipped me off. Instead, I simply figured that it was something about Mary.

And indeed, she was there with me on Saturday, when we cleared out half of a massive apartment party near Union Square (I hear the place used to belong to Michael Douglas's son?). But she was being nice.

Honestly, I thought that I was being nice, too, but the fact is that ever since Nick sent me this link, I have been forced to come to terms with my inherently contentious spirit. The temptation to bicker is just too strong: I've closed the browser over and over again just to find myself checking just one last thing...about 30 seconds later. I have no idea how I will cope with being away from any Internet access tomorrow, although I suspect that my scheduled trip to Max Brenner's will ease the pain just a smidge.

The worst part is that Nick likes a good bicker as much as the next person--even assuming that I am said next person. And it's not so much fun when the debater isn't a stranger, as Andrea is discovering as she uncovers more and more of Eric's debates (my guess--my hope--is that he just likes playing devil's advocate). All of the arguments that you will ever have in the course of a lifetime with a person are condensed into a couple of days, and relationships aren't meant for that kind of pressure.

I am so lucky that I am not still trying to pick up Nick, because under the influence of this wretched site, I think that I could scare off even him.

Anyone care to argue the point?

Xfers

Nick mocks me for compulsively checking my email. It's not that I'm waiting for anything specific, or that I just get so very much email that it makes sense for me to constantly refresh the page, and it's not like I think about checking it when I am out of the house. It's just a thing to do with my hands, is all.

I couldn't check yesterday, and came home to 15 emails. Take that, Nick.

Most of them, naturally, were from Andrea and Mary, who, unaware of the fact that I was not keeping up with the conversation, were busy planning dinner for three. They generously decided that I should choose the restaurant (since I won't get to choose them for much longer), conveniently forgetting that I somehow always get stuck choosing the restaurant.

And I was still a little shaken from the last time Andrea and I ate out, you know?

But after a flurry of phone calls (and some citysearch comparison shopping by Mary) I decided that it was time for a return visit to this great little Mexican place where Melissa had a birthday, oh, forever ago. Lovely atmosphere, wonderfully winey sangria, and freakishly good tiramisu. I don't get that last one, either.

So. I set out to make my way to Grammercy from Rockefeller Center, but I was clearly due for a stupid commute from the start. See, the man in front of me swiped his card and went through the turnstile so fast that his "OK 2.oo BAL 14.00" was still on the screen when I clumsily ran my own card through. And it stayed there.

Now. I generally buy one-day unlimited cards when I know I will be running around, so I was waiting for a simple "GO." Between the unchanged message and the awkward swipe, I didn't even bother to try the turnstile; I swiped my card again. "OK 2.00 BAL 12.00."

Damnit.

After waiting forever for a bus at 23rd Street (I love how it's always smokers who hog the best spots in the rain, and then of course they exhale all over the inferior spots, so that basically the rest of us have to stand in the rain, by the way), two came at once. As I climbed on, I absently looked at the Metrocard display, expecting the usual "1 XFER OKAY." "2 XFERS OKAY," I was told, and gritted my teeth as I considered offering the wasted transfer to the person behind me.

I decided that that would not make me feel any better.

Karma is alive and well, though, because after a series of miscalculations, I hopped off the bus two avenues early. By the time I made it to the restaurant (eight miraculous minutes before our 7:00 meeting time), my glasses were covered in raindrops. This ceased to matter the moment I stepped into the warm restaurant, as they promptly steamed over and effectively blinded me.

I explained to the host that I was waiting for friends. "Ah," he said sagely. "The bar!" After a difficult pause, he broke down and asked if I could see anything. Discovering that I could not, he took my arm and led me to the bar, explaining why to any patrons whom we passed along the way.

The bartender, who served up a margarita, showed me his wedding photos, and taught me to clean my glasses with Absolut® all within two minutes of my arrival, could not have come at a better time.

We had a lovely night; we did. We ended up hopping another bus up to DT-UT (I was bitter about using my Metrocard again once the extra transfer had expired, and a little cranky when we eventually noticed that we had been waiting for the wrong bus...but whatever) and mainlining processed sugar for a couple of hours, which is always a nice thing.

I headed over to 3rd Ave., where the bus that leaves me at my door eventually swung over to the curb. And as I climbed on, I happened to glance down.

"1 XFER OKAY."

Okay.

The Countdown

When I was in elementary school, I had a principal with two defining habits: he got to know every child in the school, and he loved to sing. In fact, he tended to make up individualized songs for us (mine was adapted from "Carolina in the Morning" after he discovered that my last name is German for "morning"; my best friend Marissa got a version of "Maria"--but both were stripped of any romantic overtones, of course). He also came on the intercom every first of the month to tell us that he hoped that the first words that we had said that morning had been "Rabbit, rabbit," to ensure good luck for the rest of the month.

I always forget.

January ended with a whimper: I spent the day at my fake job, except for the lunch hour during which I raced over to my real job. I explained this schedule to Nick, except apparently he doesn't retain information all that well at 4am, so I stopped running for five minutes to talk him down. I picked up dry cleaning and got Jim and Kate's Christmas present (finally!--and it was lovely) from the post office, cooked a late dinner (an Asian sort of steamed thing), and January was over.

Now it is one month for real (the fateful tickets arrived tonight via a pissed-off UPS guy who rang the bell like a teenage punk and said "UPS" to sound like "Julio's," so really the fact that I refused to buzz him in for so long is just his very own fault). What can a person do in one month?

I have planned my very last NYC dessert party, aiming to accommodate people who have not been able to make any of the previous ones. Next weekend (next-next) I will butter my ramekins and start cooking up as many Winter-Spiced Molten Chocolate Cakes with Rum-Ginger Ice Cream as people can eat, and that is also approximately when Glenn will haul off my couch. My stepgrandmother will get my computer (my old one, Nick; yours is sketchy), I am hoping that Andrea will take my TONY subscription as well as my bookcase (which realistically will never make it out of here in one piece), and I am allegedly booking a full slate of doctor appointments for the transition week (I am thinking about it--I swear).

I am trying to make it to every place that I have loved, and to every place that I have always meant to go, and to make sure that I get to say all of my goodbyes. I am waxing nostalgic--that crazy first New Year's Eve with Melissa, Andrea's dedication to Restaurant Week, hauling Mary into a coffee shop when our professor almost caught us gossiping on the street, and Kevin (aside from that whole summer in the park) the number to The Place that you gave me to impress Nick on our first date (it did). Kevin, I have the new number, if you need it. Kevin, we should go before I go.

Everything, now, is "before I go."