I always get to this point in the year when that awesome, terrifying tug at the pit of my stomach kicks in. My feet start to itch and my mind starts to race and I start thinking about thing to see and do and eat and see in places so far from sydney, australia. If you scrolled back through my archives you'd find a similar post to this every year, in about july-august, without fail. It's when it's cold and quiet and there's nothing to do but dream. This year there is actually plenty to do; there's a thesis to write and friends who have been neglected all semester to see and granola to bake and stories to think up and then get down on paper (that's the hard part). But I'm a dreamer. I always have been. I'm a dreamer and a bit of a wanderer. I'm that type of wanderer who takes great delight in leaving but perhaps even more delight in coming home, if only so I can shower people in souvenirs and stories and snapshots of the places I have been. Right now I'm thinking about New York. The last time I was there I had such a good time I almost didn't want to come home. With every subsequent trip I get more comfortable there, in my beautiful Brooklyn neighbourhood with my beautiful Brooklyn friends. I never want to leave them. It feels so right, eating bagels cross-legged on their couch or watching the superbowl as the snow fell softly down. Or, by turns, heading out to conquer the city with Rachel in the infancy of our friendship, laughing out loud at ridiculous waitresses and the cold and $2 tim tams and the promise of pizza. New York is a city for when you're young, and for peaches and warm subway air and being twenty-two. I think I'm ready for you again.
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