Chapter 1 - The little prince takes flight

The Portland sun shone down generously as I hassled my sizable bags into the back of Taylor's midnight blue Volvo. It was 8:06am and every molecule of moisture in the air seemed to arc and crackle off of my skin. I had already gotten my final Portland Stumptown americano and said farewell to the baristas of which I had grown so fond.

When the girls arrived to escort me to the airport I fought the rising emotions threatening to spill over my eyelids. There wasn't time for that. Not yet at least. Carrie, Kat, Eva, and Lucie walked with Taylor and me down to Pine State where I said a second set of good byes to the lovely ladies (and gentleman) who had on so many, many occasions brightened my days with fried chicken and cheese. How I'll miss Talia, Jenny, Margot, Hannah, Clara, and Nathan. Almost as much as I'll miss those biscuits.

Following a phone call from the airline notifying me that my flight had been delayed, my entourage and I enjoyed a somewhat leisurely breakfast and then set off for the airport. Once there the group waited patiently as I was reassigned from US Airways to a Delta flight and checked my large bags. I knew they were going to exceed the weight limit but I was moving nearly everything I owned. After a few bats of my naturally curly lashes I was able to coax Christi G from customer service into waiving the excessive weight fee as recompense for my new flight arriving an hour later than my original reservation. She was quite nice about the whole ordeal.

I was then escorted by Taylor and the lovelies to security check in where of course I was reduced to a puddle of nostalgia and adoration. This would be the last time I saw my closest loved ones for quite some time.

Eva photographed the entire ordeal while Lucie somehow made her doe-eyes even larger and more emotive than usual. Carrie gave me a kiss and told she was both proud and envious. Kat's china-doll cheeks went rosy with joy and angst as she hugged me tightly and told me to take over the Big Apple. Taylor wrapped me up in his long arms and rested his bearded chin on my shoulder telling me he would see me soon.

Somehow in the midst of all of the well-wishing and affection the security line formed in front of and behind us. It was like I was being sucked into the movement of the whole process like a surfer being sucked out to sea. Only I wasn't swimming towards the shore.

In final farewell Eva, Carrie, and Kat made a human pyramid and smiled their gorgeous grins while I laughed through the shower of tears.

By the time I boarded the Atlanta-bound flight I was calmed significantly and immediately pulled my book from the squished contents of my little blue carry-on bag, losing myself in its pages from take off to landing.

Arriving in the Atlanta airport I squeezed my way off of the plane with the urgency of a birthing giraffe. The water and (atrocious tasting) coffee saturating my bladder seemed just as eager to exit.
Making my way to the nearest restroom I barely had time to stuff both myself and my carry-ons into the cramped stall before I let loose like Niagara Falls.
Sweet release.

The next pressing urge dawned on me shortly after washing my hands and narrowly dodging the herd of paunchy business men crowding the entry like a pack of desperate belugas: find food.
And smoke a cigarette.

I’m pretty certain the ham and cheese I ended up procuring was more of a health threat than the cigarette. I was somewhat relieved that the server forgot that I asked for potato salad and brought me a bag of chips instead. Sealed packaging seemed ostensibly less risky.

Thinking back on the plane ride itself I must say I was somewhat puzzled at entering the lavatory where there are countless signs posted forbidding smoking while a clearly marked ash tray resides directly at eye-level from the commode.

Having requested a seat change in order to be in an exit row (let’s be honest, my legs like even a minor amount of mobility) I found myself flanked by two middle-aged men both of whom seemed to be rather unremarkable. To my left sat Cliff. From what I could gather he was some kind of doctor or perhaps a member of some other facet of the medical world considering his choice of reading material contained a gaggle of images depicting x-rays of severed digits. Appetizing. To my right was a man whose name I would later learn was Mick. He spent the ride engaged in multiple rounds of the in-flight trivia game available in the seat-mounted touch screen. I’ll be honest in saying I occasionally peeked over my book to see how well he wasn’t doing while simultaneously guessing whether or not I would be any improvement.

Mick and I had a few moments of brief conversation wherein I told him of my move and he recounted his own temporary relocation from Portland to the big city several years prior, accenting how it was the best five years of his life. Living once again in Portland, he was en route to Florida where upon meeting his girlfriend the two would be off for a weekend at Disneyworld.

I happened upon him after disembarkation in the smoking lounge where I was served the fetid sandwich. We chatted a bit longer and he complained of his Blackberry refusing to connect to the internet while I googled possible solutions. Oh, the technology age. Eventually he headed to his gate offering me a kind farewell and “good luck in New York!” It was terribly Hallmark.

Just after Mick left, a strikingly beautiful woman in a black pants suit and glittering silver and onyx necklace settled into the table next to mine. By that point I had pulled out my laptop and started writing about the day’s events so I was afforded a silently detached vantage point as she order a glass of pinot grigio and lit a Marlboro light. I couldn’t help but notice her poise and subtle elegance. Not to mention she had the brightest eyes and hint of a smile playing on her lightly shaded lips.
Eventually my curiosity got the best of me and I decided to strike up a conversation. Considering what little I knew about her I decided to call upon the environment as a means of beginning discourse.

“Don’t order the food here,” I said in a lowered voice, leaning over to imply some sort of clandestine insider perspective. I thought it was a friendly enough way of gaining immediate trust.

“Oh,” she replied turning to me with her sparkling gaze, the smile actually making itself fully visible. “Thanks, I wasn’t sure. Your sandwich made me consider it for a second.”

Glancing back at the two half-slices of dried rye barely maintaining an embrace of wilted lettuce, mysteriously colorful ham, and drooping Kraft singles (not to mention the soggy, mealy tomatoes) I looked back and simply told her, “looks can be deceiving.”

Somehow, from the topic of questionable food we went on to discuss art, writing, Salinger, Woolf, Miranda July, and social discrimination. All over white wine and cigarettes.

She introduced herself as LeAnn and upon learning of my move she seemed to glitter more brightly than ever.
“I love New York!” Her exclamation was doubtlessly genuine and full of anticipation.
“You’re going to have such an incredible time in that wonderful city!” she finished.

We continued to talk for another half hour during which Mick returned telling us that his flight had been delayed. At the mention of approaching departure times I checked my watch and realized that I only had approximately 45 minutes until my own flight. Saying a grateful good bye I exchanged blog addresses with LeAnn and we both promised to keep in touch via our online writing.

I paid and left (incidentally $16.99 for a beer and a morbidly repulsive sandwich felt fundamentally immoral) and then went to wait at my gate for my 9:30 leg to JFK. And I waited. And waited.

Around 9:05 I began to grow a little uneasy. The gate was basically deserted and the LED screen showed no signs of my flight number of departure time. Quickly checking online I was astonished to find that the gate had been re-decided and I was several seating areas away from where I was supposed to be checking in.

Stashing my book and phone I snatched up my bags and hurriedly wheeled them down the lengthy walkway past the food courts and toward my proper gate.

When I arrived at gate A13 I was tremendously relieved to see that the LED over the check in desk displayed all of the proper information for my subsequent flight. However it was by that point 9:11 and there was no Delta representative behind the desk itself left alone any queue forming to board. Apparently it was running a bit behind schedule. Additionally relieving. I collected myself just in time to see a woman in an airline uniform step up to the manifest computer and I promptly approached hoping my luck in spacious seating would carry over from my previous trip. She informed me that there were plenty of open seats including some in the exit rows and I was privileged enough to nab one myself.
The flight began boarding around 9:20 and it was pretty clear we wouldn’t be getting off of the ground by our scheduled time. Although I did end up having more leg room than the last seat and I also had an empty seat neighboring my own allowing for a luxurious amount of space in the event that I felt like napping.
The flight attendant came by checking to see that everyone’s seat belts were properly fastened and paused a moment to let me know she liked my hair (albeit she had the decorum not to thrust her hands into it and yank at the follicles to see if it was real...the plane was clearly not a Sage Restaurant).

As we taxied toward the runway I retrieved my copy of Ayn Rand’s novel, Anthem from my Samsonite (I’d patiently waited to read it since having had it gifted to me by my friend, Tarah Whitaker back in December). Just as I was opening to the first page of the author’s forward the pilot came on the PA informing the passengers that due to weather we would be waiting in line for take off and it might be a little longer than expected.
A little longer turned into an hour. We hadn’t even left the ground and already I was feeling my butt cheeks screaming in protest.

Finally taking off we flew for 1 hour and 41 minutes during which I finished the novel, ate some ginger cookies, drank some more bad coffee, and saw the Empire State Building in person for the first time.

Sure, it may have felt trite to be excited over something so bromidic but I was not to be put down. One of the icons of my future loomed like a glowing buoy out the window and I’ll admit my eyes remained fixed on its light-tipped spire all of the way until the plane touched down.

I was in New York.

Getting off of the plane took nearly as long as getting on due to what the captain described as flawed ground crew operations regarding accurately extending the breezeway. It took four tries before they were able to properly align the accordion walkway with the door.

Eager to make my way onto the terra firma of my new home town I quickly descended to the baggage claim carousel where surprisingly both of my over-sized check bags came out within 5 minutes of the conveyor starting up. I then stacked them on one of those rentable bag buggies and wheeled the two suitcases, one green army duffel, blue typewriter case, and pinstripe umbrella that composed my whole life into the waiting line for a taxi into the city.

By the time I’d managed to get all of my bulky effects into the yellow sedan and the driver pulled onto the Manhattan Expressway I had truly begun to feel like this was the beginning, as opposed to preparation.

I felt like a complete tourist and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I stared at every track home, toll booth and tunnel entrance like they were the sets for a new movie starring myself. I blatantly refused to even think about the Annie soundtrack let alone let it run through my head.

I whipped out my phone and my fingers were a blur as I let everyone back in Portland know that I had made it safely to my destination. And then I saw the Manhattan skyline rolling up over the top of the hill and my fingers quit their racing.

This was no longer that place that I’d read about, talked about, dreamt about.
This was my city. Mine. It belonged to me and I to it.

The cab driver got into downtown and turned onto Fifth Avenue where I realized I would be able to see the spine of the towering metropolis from an inimitably intimate perspective.

Traversing Greenwich Village after exiting the forest of skyscrapers I was immediately aware of just how accurately the area had been described to me: every square foot of available space was being utilized as anything from a dry-cleaners to a dim sum window.

Stopping finally on Bleecker Street in front of the green door with the numbers 247 nailed above, a fresh thrill tingled through my whole form as I saw where I would be spending my first night. A quaint four-storey brick segment in a solid block of buildings, the house on Bleecker was composed of the top three floors. After having obtained my luggage and paid my cab fare I hauled my pounds and pounds of clothing and toiletries up the stairs to the lovely living area of Drew Stafford Harper’s home which would be my temporary residence until I took up the sublet in February.

It was just as I’d imagined: everything was a bit narrower than I was used to and all of the wood floors creaked cacophonously. And I loved it.

I struggled my way to the second floor of the house (the third floor of the building) with my bags and stopped for a moment to let it fully sink in.

I was in Manhattan. I was going to stay here. To live here. To become a part of its beautiful, terrible, unstoppable dynamic.

Nothing in the whole world could have made me happier.

And I think I’ll ride that wave for as long as I can.