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.