New York, New York: A Helluva Town

Back in the jungle. Back to the grind. Sirens ring in my tender, California spoiled eardrums, while some teenage punk grabs his man bits in front of my Starbucks window perch. Scarf twirled jauntily round my neck, oxford walking shoes on feet, tis truly a comfort and curse to be back in the city.

Funny the things one grows accustomed to. Four AM drag races down my apartment's cross street. Morning Spanish lessons with the man who sells me my New York Post at the corner bodega. Mariachi bands interupting my ipod coma as the subway jerks me towards midtown. It is not the pristine waterside splendor of Seattle, nor the cookie cutter comfort of suburbia. I walk with shoulders hunched and scowl on my face, avoiding eye contact and terrified of tourists. Yet New York Melody is a character I wear like second skin. Constantly perturbed, bitter, aware of the ironic in all facets my day, this depressive diva wears her tough gal armour as though she graduated from the school of hard knocks. In Reality, she graduated from Suburban Bubble High, class of Fantasyland, and in truth, all this posing makes her tired. (And methinks tis also creating a permanently hunched right shoulder.)

A ceaseless chill bites my cheeks. Strangers step upon my toes. An intruder has broken into my local gym and now we must all carry IDs with us. Is a strip search on the horizon?

Truth be told, I want my sunshine back. I want to cruise the highway with Ipod blaring, no fear of guitar strums and yodels interrupting my tunes. I want to take my morning jog and know with absolute certainty that every single person along the trail will greet me with a smile and "Hello". To stand tall and gaze upon the world with an eagle-eye stare, and not an ashamed glance from downturned lids. Let's face it, as much as I am a posseur in the form of a Jaded Jill, I simply want a world where folks stop and breathe.

When I breifly visited Seattle, I adopted a child.

Not literally, of course. Twas one of those "Pay $22 a month, give your girl in Guatemala a college education" type situations. In New York, I admit to being guilty of brushing past the man on the street with clipboard in hand and photo of starving child in Africa on display. But... well, I don't know. Something about the spirit of joy and giving, community and overall Hippy Granola-dom in WA compelled my charitable butterfly to emerge from the cocoon. It may be a scam, but to at least feel human again for a brief moment was a bit of a shock. There can be sunshine and lollipops and all of that nonsense, even in the rainiest state of the country.

So the motto of the story is thus: Grumpy Grandma's gotta get herself the hell outta dodge to find a new attitude. Either that or get the dodginess outta this hell known as Manhattan.

Either way, and I now have a child in Guatemala. Maybe I'll go live with her.