A Can Of Worms

I have a great love to share but I am afraid of opening that can of worms. I am afraid I will not be able to contain myself. And also, thinking about it makes me ache with longing. Nut a dull ache, more like a sharp pain right in my chest. But. Here goes:

I love America. I was 16 when I visited the first time. I lived for a year on each coast and also spent 6 months zig-zagging my way across. I’ve been to 30-some states and I love America and I love Americans.

This flare of emotions was sparked by my brother, who is flying to New York Saturday with 8 fellow gymnasts. Bastard! They are giving a string of performances on the East Coast and he wanted to get the dirt on the Big Apple. (No, Steve Jobs has nothing to do with this. Sheesh. That guy is everywhere these days…)

We spent quite a lot of time on google earth and went through all my favorite haunts. Just talking about it made me ache, HURT with longing.

I still remember my first breakfast in New York. I was 20 and totally overwhelmed by the taxis, the skyscrapers, the people of every origin, the limos, the helicopters, the smells, the sounds…. I had a hazelnut coffee and a poppy seed bagel with nonfat cream cheese on the corner of 82 st and Broadway. And I sat in that small diner and watched all these people, who lived their lives here. I felt like I was in a movie.

And showing my brother old pictures and maps, I revisited an old blog I wrote from when I lived for a year in Princeton, New Jersey – a 45 minute trainride from Grand Central Station. Here’s what I wrote :

Every day I count my blessings. Yesterday we met up with A and C in New York and had the most fantastic, perfect day. The sun blasted from a clear blue sky and we giddily laughed and sillied our way through The Village, SOHO and Chelsea.

We stopped at a famous pub where a famous poet drank himself to death and saluted his honor in Jameson whiskey. Stopped at a bakery that had the most beautiful cakes and shared petit fours while we smiled at people passing us by. Sought shelter from a sudden rain shower in a restaurant in Chinatown where we ate dim sum and then some. We were the only whites there but compensated with full, satisfied belches after the meal – as one should. We looked at silk fabric and bought chop sticks in black laque in the  most beautiful, wonderful, magical shops where Chinatown turns into SoHo.

Walked and walked and walked.

All of a sudden we were by the Hudson River. We watched the sun set across the river in New Jersey. In the horizon stood Lady Liberty. I had so much energy and was so bubbly with happiness that I almost offered to hold the torch for her, just a little while, so she could rest her arm.

Went through the Meat District where Stella MacCartney and all the other beautiful, young, rich and famous hang out in white futuristic stores nestled  in between the big slaughterhouses. The stentch of slaughter is mixed with the smell of perfume and money.

Searched for a place we had read of that courageously wanted to fusion the cuban and chinese cuisine. Found the place but not the courage. Too strange. Ended up with huge, frozen drink and homemade mexican cucina in Chelsea. Giggled secretly and without daring to meet each other’s eyes at the waitress’ collagen-enhanced lips, that gave her face a perpetual pout. It was supposed to look sexy but she just loked sad. We sat with each our line of a mouth and felt anything but sad.

Ended things at an Irish pub where C felt like the ruler of the world by ruling the jukebox. With 2 dollars he got 5 songs to prove his worth. It was quickly over and the loss of power was drowned in another Jamerson.

We parted at Penn Station. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

So, dear friends. The can is open and this will be the first in a series of articles about God’s Own Country. The Land of the Free. Home Of The Restless. The Country That Brought The World Baconaise!

Stay tuned!

PS. Manhatten Memory Moment #1
Once, in a Manhatten store, a very beautiful man, who worked in the store, asked me if I needed any assistance. He was beyond good-looking. Not quite black but dark and with the most amazing green eyes I have ever seen. We got to talking. After a few minutes of small talk, he sighed and looked at me really intensely and said: “You have really beautiful eyes!”

I got shy and said thank you.

I don’t know what is UP with Americans and my eyes but strangers complimenting my eyes have since been repeated numerous times. Strangers complimenting my eyes!!??
That NEVER happened in Europe. Ever. So it must be a cultural thing. Now, what is not to love about a culture in which stangers compliment each other?

I know there is no use in regret, but to this day, I really wish I had mustered the courage to tell that hot store clerk aka Greek God:

“If you like my eyes, you should really see the rest of me!”