The forty minute cruise on a bus packed with Montclair residents felt like a mere ten. I was wiped out from my six-hour sprint through Manhattan, and the cushy seat in the back of the bus felt as comfy as my pillow-top mattress back in LA, lulling me into a dream. I woke up in time for my stop and stepped out into the chilly night air. I walked the short half block to the Poetess's house, and scurried up to the third floor to change for the birthday fiesta.
The party was packed with a mixed assortment of people. A couple who lived in a rent controlled studio apartment in Chelsea, a graphic designer from Brooklyn, a freelance editor who actually kept a car in the city, a massage therapist, a gourmet chef (who prepared most of the delicious food for the festivities), a percussionist (and the poetess' boyfriend), and many other unique individuals.
The party was as eclectic as the guests, with a Rutgers University football game on in one room, wine, food and a roaring fire in another, and girl talk roaming throughout. The party lasted until three in the morning, just after the birthday girl had opened her gifts, which ranged from leftist political calendars and T-shirts to Bruce Springsteen memorabilia. Finally, around four a.m., I fell into bed, closing me eyes on a long day and a way too short weekend.
***
Precisely 52 hours after landing at Newark International Airport, I climbed into a yellow cab (which was actually brown) and headed back to the airport and back to LA. The taxi driver was a far cry from the handsome Jersey boy, Miguel, who’d picked me up Friday morning. This guy was what the Manhattanites often call “bridge and tunnel,” meaning someone who is more interested in sports scores and beer than art films and cocktails. And he smelled of cigarettes.
Riding in the back of the taxi, I felt a bit nostalgic for the Jersey boy from Friday. I wish I had called him to pick me up rather than settling for a taxi. His car was much nicer than the brown 1980s crown vic that kept making strange womping sounds whenever the driver accelerated, and he was far better looking, too. I dug into my wallet and pulled out Miguel's business card. For next time, I thought as the quaint town of Montclair rolled past my window. Because surely there would be a next time. And surely, my stay will be much, much longer.
The End
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
A Quick In and Out Continued
The alarm clock went off at 8:00am on the dot, and I slammed my hand on the snooze button, silencing it. It continued to beep every ten minutes for an hour until I finally dragged my ass out of bed and into the shower. I had to be in the City for a book fair and panel on Chick Lit at noon. Plenty of time. Or, so I thought.
In order to get into the City on a weekend, I had to take a bus. Yes, a BUS! Previously, I had taken a train into the City from Montclair, but to my surprise, I learned that they didn't run on weekends. The bus schedule clearly indicated that the bus would arrive at New York Port Authority at 11:06am, leaving me 54 minutes to get to the book fair. Oh, if only. The bus got stuck in traffic and arrived 45 minutes late.
So, with only ten minutes to travel some ten blocks to the book fair, I literally ran through the crowds in Midtown Manhattan, sweating in my new pink, turtleneck sweater. I arrived at the book fair right on time where I was greeted by a gentleman who ushered me into the building, shoved a program in to my hand and told me where the Chick Lit Panel was being held. I raced up to the third floor, found the room, and took a seat in a middle row.
The room was sweltering. I wasn't just overheated from my sprint through Midtown, either. The boiler was broken and pumping out heat like a locomotive. I pulled off my suede jacket and would have taken off my sweater, too, if there hadn't been any men in the audience. But there were, so I remained clothed and spent the next half an hour fanning myself incessantly with the book fair program. This must be what menopause feels like, I thought.
The ladies on the Chick Lit panel discussed the merits of the genre and steadfastly denied that it was dead, dying or even suffering a cold. The term "chick lit" may not last forever, but the genre itself, which many believe was birthed by Jane Austen, will continue to thrive as long as women continue to read. It was a reassuring thought, seeing as how I'd spent the past 3 years working on a chick lit novel of my own.
After the panel, I roamed the book fair looking for interesting titles and possible future publishers. Unfortunately, the small presses represented at the book fair, didn't appear to publish chick lit. So, my work done, I decided to head down to SoHo to visit a friend who owns a chocolaterie.
But first, I needed lunch. I made my way to Gobo in the West Village, ordered a veggie burger and yam fries, which I inhaled at a remarkable pace, and set out for Kee's Chocolates. The long walk to Kee's was a pleasure that brisk afternoon. I love walking through SoHo and the Village. There's something to tempt you at every turn. NYU students chatting over lattes in charming cafes, artists selling their wares on the street, funky little boutiques with over-priced merchandise, and the occasional mounted policeman (you know, the cops on horses).
But when I arrived at Kee's, she was swamped. People were lined up outside her store just waiting for a taste of one of her divine chocolates. I pushed through the crowd and found Kee. She informed me that she had recently been featured in the New York Times and had been mobbed. She didn't even have any chocolate left. I was disappointed, but knowing that the Poetess would have tons of goodies at her party, I didn't sweat it.
Then I was off to Midtown again to gawk at the giant tree at Rockefeller Center. Ever since childhood, I'd always wanted to see the tree in person. It was a sight to behold. And so was the mass of people shoving their way down to it. People were lined up around the block like a giant boa constrictor wrapping itself around the center. But I managed to wriggle through the crowd and snap off a couple of photos of the grand tree. Isn't it lovely?
After gazing up at the festive tannenbaum for some time, I realized it was time to get back to Montclair for the Poetess' party. Strolling through the streets of Midtown as the sun set in the west, I had a feeling, or hunch, that it would not be the last Manhattan sunset I would witness. In fact, I was certain that the future would hold night after night of them for me.
To be continued...
In order to get into the City on a weekend, I had to take a bus. Yes, a BUS! Previously, I had taken a train into the City from Montclair, but to my surprise, I learned that they didn't run on weekends. The bus schedule clearly indicated that the bus would arrive at New York Port Authority at 11:06am, leaving me 54 minutes to get to the book fair. Oh, if only. The bus got stuck in traffic and arrived 45 minutes late.
So, with only ten minutes to travel some ten blocks to the book fair, I literally ran through the crowds in Midtown Manhattan, sweating in my new pink, turtleneck sweater. I arrived at the book fair right on time where I was greeted by a gentleman who ushered me into the building, shoved a program in to my hand and told me where the Chick Lit Panel was being held. I raced up to the third floor, found the room, and took a seat in a middle row.
The room was sweltering. I wasn't just overheated from my sprint through Midtown, either. The boiler was broken and pumping out heat like a locomotive. I pulled off my suede jacket and would have taken off my sweater, too, if there hadn't been any men in the audience. But there were, so I remained clothed and spent the next half an hour fanning myself incessantly with the book fair program. This must be what menopause feels like, I thought.
The ladies on the Chick Lit panel discussed the merits of the genre and steadfastly denied that it was dead, dying or even suffering a cold. The term "chick lit" may not last forever, but the genre itself, which many believe was birthed by Jane Austen, will continue to thrive as long as women continue to read. It was a reassuring thought, seeing as how I'd spent the past 3 years working on a chick lit novel of my own.
After the panel, I roamed the book fair looking for interesting titles and possible future publishers. Unfortunately, the small presses represented at the book fair, didn't appear to publish chick lit. So, my work done, I decided to head down to SoHo to visit a friend who owns a chocolaterie.
But first, I needed lunch. I made my way to Gobo in the West Village, ordered a veggie burger and yam fries, which I inhaled at a remarkable pace, and set out for Kee's Chocolates. The long walk to Kee's was a pleasure that brisk afternoon. I love walking through SoHo and the Village. There's something to tempt you at every turn. NYU students chatting over lattes in charming cafes, artists selling their wares on the street, funky little boutiques with over-priced merchandise, and the occasional mounted policeman (you know, the cops on horses).
But when I arrived at Kee's, she was swamped. People were lined up outside her store just waiting for a taste of one of her divine chocolates. I pushed through the crowd and found Kee. She informed me that she had recently been featured in the New York Times and had been mobbed. She didn't even have any chocolate left. I was disappointed, but knowing that the Poetess would have tons of goodies at her party, I didn't sweat it.
Then I was off to Midtown again to gawk at the giant tree at Rockefeller Center. Ever since childhood, I'd always wanted to see the tree in person. It was a sight to behold. And so was the mass of people shoving their way down to it. People were lined up around the block like a giant boa constrictor wrapping itself around the center. But I managed to wriggle through the crowd and snap off a couple of photos of the grand tree. Isn't it lovely?
After gazing up at the festive tannenbaum for some time, I realized it was time to get back to Montclair for the Poetess' party. Strolling through the streets of Midtown as the sun set in the west, I had a feeling, or hunch, that it would not be the last Manhattan sunset I would witness. In fact, I was certain that the future would hold night after night of them for me.
To be continued...
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
A Quick In and Out Continued
Curling up on the Poetess’ comfy velvet sofa, I was starting to feel the effects of jet lag. I willed my eyes to remain open as the Poetess’ boyfriend entertained me with his guitar. All who know me, know I adore guitar. It speaks to my soul, my romantic, passionate spirit. But its chords were lulling me into a dream, and I didn’t want to leave the warm, snug blanket I had wrapped around me. However, I had made plans to meet a fellow writer for dinner, and forced myself to emerge from my cocoon and once again go out into the windy night.
The wind was still raging as I stepped out to head downtown to dine at Taro, a local Asian restaurant. I arrived at 7:30 on the dot only to discover that the other half of my party was not there yet. I took a seat at a small table covered in white linen and perused the menu. Ten minutes ticked by, and I was starting to wonder if I’d been stood up, but suddenly my cell phone chirped, and I knew it was him calling to tell me he was late.
Five minutes later, he appeared at the door, and I waved him over to my table. We ordered a selection of vegetarian “little plates” and he ordered some sort of sushi thing for himself. We talked of books, writers, writing, publishing, marketing and improv comedy for the next two hours. When the check came, I gladly paid, knowing I could write it off as a business expense.
Finally, at ten o’clock, I headed back to the Poetess’ house. I had been in Montclair for sixteen hours and I’d yet to even talk to her. And since I was there to celebrate her birthday, I felt it was high time we did some gabbing. When I arrived back at her home, she was on the phone with one of her friends working out the last details of the festivities to take place the following evening. Upon finishing her conversation, she hugged me warmly, and invited me to sit and talk with her.
We talked of my recent so-called “relationship” with a self-absorbed filmmaker – a relationship that consisted entirely of sex and not much else. After a tumultuous three month back and forth with this man, I pulled the plug, knowing it would never be what I wanted it to be. The sex was fantastic, but it was fleeting, and few and far between. I wanted more. I deserved more. So, in order to get more, I concluded that I needed to have less. Less of this man, which, unfortunately, also comes with the added bonus of having less sex, if any.
My therapist had told me that ending things with the filmmaker was “healthy.” But I just felt crappy. And I’d also felt that it would be akin to strapping on a chastity belt. I had sifted through a few hundred undesirables to finally find this guy. What was left in Los Angeles for a woman over thirty with not a trace of silicone in her body? More self-centered Hollywood types, probably.
But as I sat chatting with the Poetess, it occurred to me that what I wanted wasn’t in Los Angeles. It wasn’t even in California. And I knew the time had come to make a decision. To take a chance. To live fearlessly and boldly. To embrace a new ideology, a new philosophy, a new…City.
To be continued…
The wind was still raging as I stepped out to head downtown to dine at Taro, a local Asian restaurant. I arrived at 7:30 on the dot only to discover that the other half of my party was not there yet. I took a seat at a small table covered in white linen and perused the menu. Ten minutes ticked by, and I was starting to wonder if I’d been stood up, but suddenly my cell phone chirped, and I knew it was him calling to tell me he was late.
Five minutes later, he appeared at the door, and I waved him over to my table. We ordered a selection of vegetarian “little plates” and he ordered some sort of sushi thing for himself. We talked of books, writers, writing, publishing, marketing and improv comedy for the next two hours. When the check came, I gladly paid, knowing I could write it off as a business expense.
Finally, at ten o’clock, I headed back to the Poetess’ house. I had been in Montclair for sixteen hours and I’d yet to even talk to her. And since I was there to celebrate her birthday, I felt it was high time we did some gabbing. When I arrived back at her home, she was on the phone with one of her friends working out the last details of the festivities to take place the following evening. Upon finishing her conversation, she hugged me warmly, and invited me to sit and talk with her.
We talked of my recent so-called “relationship” with a self-absorbed filmmaker – a relationship that consisted entirely of sex and not much else. After a tumultuous three month back and forth with this man, I pulled the plug, knowing it would never be what I wanted it to be. The sex was fantastic, but it was fleeting, and few and far between. I wanted more. I deserved more. So, in order to get more, I concluded that I needed to have less. Less of this man, which, unfortunately, also comes with the added bonus of having less sex, if any.
My therapist had told me that ending things with the filmmaker was “healthy.” But I just felt crappy. And I’d also felt that it would be akin to strapping on a chastity belt. I had sifted through a few hundred undesirables to finally find this guy. What was left in Los Angeles for a woman over thirty with not a trace of silicone in her body? More self-centered Hollywood types, probably.
But as I sat chatting with the Poetess, it occurred to me that what I wanted wasn’t in Los Angeles. It wasn’t even in California. And I knew the time had come to make a decision. To take a chance. To live fearlessly and boldly. To embrace a new ideology, a new philosophy, a new…City.
To be continued…
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
A Quick In and Out Continued
After dozing under a down comforter for six hours, I awakened in the top floor guest bedroom of my host’s three-story home in Montclair, pulled back the curtains to find that it was still raining, and yanked the comforter back over my head. Yes, yes. I know. I said I wanted a break from LA’s relentless sun, but still, I wasn’t prepared to go walking around in the rain. I love the rain – when viewed from the comfort of a warm chair next to a cozy fire and reading a good book. Actually making my way around town in the wet stuff, is another story entirely. However, I had some things to accomplish, so I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower.
After a good primping, I ventured out into the streets of Montclair, rejoicing that the rain had let up. But it was hot. Or at least it was too warm for a sweater, which was all I’d brought with me, assuming that it would be cold in New York in December. I carried my raincoat in my arms just in case the heavens decided to let loose on me and headed downtown to grab some breakfast. Well, since it was almost three o’clock in the afternoon, I suppose it was lunch even though it consisted of pancakes and cranberry juice. Breakfast is my favorite meal, and I will happily consume it at any time of day.
The restaurant was hot, and I sat fanning myself with the menu until the waitress took it away from me. Damn, what is with this weather, I thought. I had bought three new sweaters just for this trip and was really looking forward to wearing them, not sweating in them. I rarely get to wear such things in Los Angeles, and I was eager to embrace a change of pace.
After lunch, I strolled the idyllic streets, perusing shop windows looking for jewelry. I needed to buy a couple of rings to replace two that had been given to me by a bad ex-boyfriend. I felt they had “bad mojo” and were preventing me from forming future “good” relationships. I was genius at forming bad relationships. It was time to start fixing my mojo.
I found my way to an artist’s cooperative and bought a pair of hand made earrings and a necklace. They were lovely, but I still needed new rings, so I set out to do some more shopping. I picked up a set of stationary and a scented candle at another shop, and started to wonder if I was going to dispel my bad mojo today, or if I was going to remain stuck with it.
Finally, fifteen minutes before closing, I happened upon a little shop with hundreds of rings laid out in glass cases. An elderly woman behind the counter cheerfully ushered me into her store, which was filled with glittering jewelry, posh knickknacks, and French soaps.
“What are you looking for, honey?” the shopkeeper with fiery red hair asked.
“Rings,” I replied.
“Oh, well, Carrie can help you with that.” She called out to a young woman built like a Rugby player with short brown hair, no make-up and a pleasant smile.
“What can I help you with?” Carrie asked sweetly.
“I need new rings.”
“What kind are you interested in? We have semi-precious stones, earth stones, silver, and gold.”
“Silver with maybe a red or purple stone.”
Carrie proceeded to lay out at least a hundred different rings of every shape and color. I tried nearly every one on, gleeful that I was about to rid myself of the bad mojo I’d been carrying around for years. After much deliberation, I settled on a moonstone embedded in silver and a silver band speckled with five tiny amethysts. Carrie wrapped them up in a velvet bag, and I strode out of the store with high hopes of a new relationship mojo working for me.
And into a windstorm so violent it nearly knocked me on my ass. Wind raged around me, and I put on my raincoat, pulling it close to my body. My hair was spun in every direction, and at one point, I felt that my glasses might actually be whipped off my face by the roaring wind.
But I took it as a good sign. The winds of change were definitely upon me, and I was ready to embrace them.
To be continued…
After a good primping, I ventured out into the streets of Montclair, rejoicing that the rain had let up. But it was hot. Or at least it was too warm for a sweater, which was all I’d brought with me, assuming that it would be cold in New York in December. I carried my raincoat in my arms just in case the heavens decided to let loose on me and headed downtown to grab some breakfast. Well, since it was almost three o’clock in the afternoon, I suppose it was lunch even though it consisted of pancakes and cranberry juice. Breakfast is my favorite meal, and I will happily consume it at any time of day.
The restaurant was hot, and I sat fanning myself with the menu until the waitress took it away from me. Damn, what is with this weather, I thought. I had bought three new sweaters just for this trip and was really looking forward to wearing them, not sweating in them. I rarely get to wear such things in Los Angeles, and I was eager to embrace a change of pace.
After lunch, I strolled the idyllic streets, perusing shop windows looking for jewelry. I needed to buy a couple of rings to replace two that had been given to me by a bad ex-boyfriend. I felt they had “bad mojo” and were preventing me from forming future “good” relationships. I was genius at forming bad relationships. It was time to start fixing my mojo.
I found my way to an artist’s cooperative and bought a pair of hand made earrings and a necklace. They were lovely, but I still needed new rings, so I set out to do some more shopping. I picked up a set of stationary and a scented candle at another shop, and started to wonder if I was going to dispel my bad mojo today, or if I was going to remain stuck with it.
Finally, fifteen minutes before closing, I happened upon a little shop with hundreds of rings laid out in glass cases. An elderly woman behind the counter cheerfully ushered me into her store, which was filled with glittering jewelry, posh knickknacks, and French soaps.
“What are you looking for, honey?” the shopkeeper with fiery red hair asked.
“Rings,” I replied.
“Oh, well, Carrie can help you with that.” She called out to a young woman built like a Rugby player with short brown hair, no make-up and a pleasant smile.
“What can I help you with?” Carrie asked sweetly.
“I need new rings.”
“What kind are you interested in? We have semi-precious stones, earth stones, silver, and gold.”
“Silver with maybe a red or purple stone.”
Carrie proceeded to lay out at least a hundred different rings of every shape and color. I tried nearly every one on, gleeful that I was about to rid myself of the bad mojo I’d been carrying around for years. After much deliberation, I settled on a moonstone embedded in silver and a silver band speckled with five tiny amethysts. Carrie wrapped them up in a velvet bag, and I strode out of the store with high hopes of a new relationship mojo working for me.
And into a windstorm so violent it nearly knocked me on my ass. Wind raged around me, and I put on my raincoat, pulling it close to my body. My hair was spun in every direction, and at one point, I felt that my glasses might actually be whipped off my face by the roaring wind.
But I took it as a good sign. The winds of change were definitely upon me, and I was ready to embrace them.
To be continued…
Monday, December 04, 2006
A Quick In and Out
When the plane finally landed at Newark International Airport at 6:03 am Friday morning, I swore I’d never take another red eye from LA to New York. Of course, this was the third time I’d made such a vow, but this time, I really meant it. I grabbed my purple suitcase off the conveyor belt at baggage claim and headed out the door into a gloomy, rainy morning. Finally, a break from LA’s blazing sun!
Immediately I was accosted by not one, but three taxi drivers offering their services into the City. “I’m not going into the City,” I barked at them. They backed away sheepishly as I plowed ahead looking for the taxi stand. I knew not to trust those guys who approach you at the airport door. I’d seen enough episodes of Law and Order to know not to get into a taxi with one of them. They might be gypsies, or whatever the hell they’re called when they don’t have a hack license (whatever that is).
As I was walking toward the line of yellow cabs waiting at the taxi stand, a well-dressed man with olive skin and dark eyes appeared before me. He couldn’t have been over thirty years old, but he had an air about him that made him seem mature, assured.
“Do you need a car?” he asked.
“I’m not going to the City,” I said, a little less German Shepard in my voice this time.
“Where are you going?”
“Montclair.”
“I can take you there. Forty-five dollars. Same as a Yellow Cab, but I’ve got a nice, new car.” He pointed at a black, luxury sedan of some sort.
“Do you know the area?” I said, knowing I couldn’t give him directions to my friend’s house as I’d only been there once before.
“Of course! I’m a Jersey boy.”
“Okay.”
He took my purple suitcase from me and loaded it into the trunk of his car. He then opened the door to the backseat, and I slipped in. It was indeed a “nice, new car.” The charcoal grey interior was impeccably clean and smelled slightly of lavender.
“I’m Miguel,” he said, passing back his business card.
“Do you also do pick ups in Montclair?”
“Sure.”
“Even on Sundays?”
“I work Sunday through Friday.”
“Only one day off?” I asked.
“I only need on day. I go out Friday night, have a few drinks, play a bit, then I rest on Saturday. But basically, I work whenever I want to.”
“You own the car?”
“Yeah.”
“How much notice do you need.”
“Notice?”
“For the pick up.”
“About a day.”
Miguel and I rode in relative silence for the next fifteen minutes. I watched the rain-soaked scenery from the comfort of Miguel’s luxury car, enjoying the changing vistas. As we ventured into Montclair, Miguel pointed out a club that he goes to on Friday nights.
“The Diva Lounge,” he said. “It’s pretty cool. Good music.”
“Oh.”
“Montclair is a nice little town.”
“Yes,” I said. Was I to be making pleasant chit-chat, too? I hadn’t slept more than two hours in the past twenty-four, and my brain was slow on the uptake.
Miguel pulled up to my friend’s house and removed my suitcase from the trunk of his car. “Call me Saturday if you need a ride to the airport on Sunday.”
“Sure,” I said, grabbing the case and handing him forty-five dollars. Shit. Was I supposed to tip him, too? But he owns the car. Do you still tip in that situation? I thought to myself.
Miguel drove off, and I lumbered up the walkway dragging my suitcase behind me and feeling somewhat like a skinflint. I can’t call him for a ride now. He probably thinks I’m a cheapskate. Great.
To be continued…
Immediately I was accosted by not one, but three taxi drivers offering their services into the City. “I’m not going into the City,” I barked at them. They backed away sheepishly as I plowed ahead looking for the taxi stand. I knew not to trust those guys who approach you at the airport door. I’d seen enough episodes of Law and Order to know not to get into a taxi with one of them. They might be gypsies, or whatever the hell they’re called when they don’t have a hack license (whatever that is).
As I was walking toward the line of yellow cabs waiting at the taxi stand, a well-dressed man with olive skin and dark eyes appeared before me. He couldn’t have been over thirty years old, but he had an air about him that made him seem mature, assured.
“Do you need a car?” he asked.
“I’m not going to the City,” I said, a little less German Shepard in my voice this time.
“Where are you going?”
“Montclair.”
“I can take you there. Forty-five dollars. Same as a Yellow Cab, but I’ve got a nice, new car.” He pointed at a black, luxury sedan of some sort.
“Do you know the area?” I said, knowing I couldn’t give him directions to my friend’s house as I’d only been there once before.
“Of course! I’m a Jersey boy.”
“Okay.”
He took my purple suitcase from me and loaded it into the trunk of his car. He then opened the door to the backseat, and I slipped in. It was indeed a “nice, new car.” The charcoal grey interior was impeccably clean and smelled slightly of lavender.
“I’m Miguel,” he said, passing back his business card.
“Do you also do pick ups in Montclair?”
“Sure.”
“Even on Sundays?”
“I work Sunday through Friday.”
“Only one day off?” I asked.
“I only need on day. I go out Friday night, have a few drinks, play a bit, then I rest on Saturday. But basically, I work whenever I want to.”
“You own the car?”
“Yeah.”
“How much notice do you need.”
“Notice?”
“For the pick up.”
“About a day.”
Miguel and I rode in relative silence for the next fifteen minutes. I watched the rain-soaked scenery from the comfort of Miguel’s luxury car, enjoying the changing vistas. As we ventured into Montclair, Miguel pointed out a club that he goes to on Friday nights.
“The Diva Lounge,” he said. “It’s pretty cool. Good music.”
“Oh.”
“Montclair is a nice little town.”
“Yes,” I said. Was I to be making pleasant chit-chat, too? I hadn’t slept more than two hours in the past twenty-four, and my brain was slow on the uptake.
Miguel pulled up to my friend’s house and removed my suitcase from the trunk of his car. “Call me Saturday if you need a ride to the airport on Sunday.”
“Sure,” I said, grabbing the case and handing him forty-five dollars. Shit. Was I supposed to tip him, too? But he owns the car. Do you still tip in that situation? I thought to myself.
Miguel drove off, and I lumbered up the walkway dragging my suitcase behind me and feeling somewhat like a skinflint. I can’t call him for a ride now. He probably thinks I’m a cheapskate. Great.
To be continued…
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