On the way back to the hotel yesterday, I saw a couple with rolling luggage trying to hail a taxi. It was embarrassing. They would watch for taxis, and at the moment that the taxi flew by, the woman who wiggle her fingers at the taxi and call “are you free” in a voice that barely reached me, much less the street. The man seemed too embarrassed to even attempt that much. At 5:30, getting a taxi with a strong stance and loud whistle is already difficult.
At my third month of New York living, I feel much the Manhattanite. I enjoy a egg sandwich at a diner for breakfast, a rushed lunch at my desk, a leisurely dinner with friends (and I can recommend places), I buy dollar jewelry in the garment district, shoes in Soho, and pilgrimage to Century 21 for most else, and enjoy wifi in Chelsea market (as well as watcing the weekend tango lessons) and produce in Union Square. I don’t carry a subway map anymore (though I would if I could find a wallet sized one).
But I’m still glad to return to California on Tuesday, to my husband, house and car. Not because I don’t love New York (because I have fallen quite in love with it) but because you can only live in a suitcase so long.