L.A. Has No Heart

I got a car today - leased a VW Jetta 2.5. I only vaguely even know what that means, but the car seems sturdy, I like driving it, the cost was decent and our sales guy, Uncle Barry, was raised in the Bronx so we had a New York connection. When you buy a car you are forced to explain yourself a lot: People want to know what your last ride was (the subway) and how many cars you've had before (1 - my dad's) and who your insurance carrier is (what insurance?). When people find out that you have just moved from New York to Los Angeles, they all say things like, "Whoa! That is quite a change." Or "You must be going through some major culture shock." One woman at the car dealership said that she'd always dreamed of going to the city, but is scared now. When I asked why, she said, "Terrorism." That made me sad. The best reaction was from the Geico insurance guy on the phone. When he saw our former address -- which was in the West Village -- he said, "Wow, you were really in tthe heart of New York City. Now you're in L.A. It's so spread out. That city has no heart." And I felt homesick.


Also: My dad is much better and will be out of the hospital, we think, on Tuesday.

The Unexpected

I thought moving to L.A. would be tough. I did not think that on the day I arrived, my father would be in the intensive care unit with a massive infection in his throat, face and neck. But that is what happened. Matt and I spent one day and night in Los Angeles -- mostly observing the plastic surgery victims who populate The Grove shopping mall -- then we drove to the desert where my dad is hospitalized. And suddenly I am talking to nurses and leaving messages for doctors and helping my dad. This is most unexpected.

When I moved to New York at age 22, I lamented that my parents were not around to help me. If I had been living closer to them, they would have bought me furniture and fed me home-cooked meals sometimes. Instead, I did it all on my own. Now, 13 years later, my parents are the ones who need help. And I am here to do it.

This Is It

Today is my last day in NYC. It's beautiful here. I'm wearing a dress - and no jacket - for the first time this year.

My coworkers had a lovely surprise goodbye party for me with champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries.

Last night, I went for drinks with all my pals from my old job at Fox. We met at the bar where every single Fox goodbye party is held. Tradition.

This morning I did something very important. I wheeled my very old, rusty flat-tired bike out from behind the other decaying bicycles in my backyard, cleaned it off a bit - then took it over to a funky bike shop near the Hudson River. I left a note on it that read, "I know it doesn’t look like it, but I was once deeply loved. Then my owner let me fall into disrepair. But with a little work, and a new tire, I could make someone happy again. Can you help?"

Maybe that was psychotic, but that bike really helped me explore NYC and I could not just abandon it in the backyard to die. I think it will be taken care of.

There's more to do here, but I have said my goodbyes -- to people, to the city, to my young self -- and there's nothing else I can do to prepare to leave. So, tomorrow I will fly out of here.

Bits and Parts…

The tress are really starting to bloom outside my window.

Today is my 35th birthday.

I finally visited the Frick yesterday. It's beautiful.

At our engagement/going-away/birthday party I cried, but mostly I had a wonderful time. Lots of friends came. The sun was out. We drank crisp white wine. We sat outside in Tribeca. It's a good way to say goodbye.

I'm leaving New York

Saying Goodbye

This morning, Hank, an older guy who has lived in my building for 30 years stopped me on the way down the stairs to wish me luck and give me a hug (not in a creepy way). Also, another guy who lives there and who voluntarily tends to the garden told me he'd look after my plants if I leave them in the backyard for him. It was sweet.

I feel oddly compelled to go around to everyone I vaguely know in my neighborhood to say farewell -- but realize this compunction is probably psychotic. (When I was young and we moved, which was A LOT, I'd go around saying goodbye to every inanimate object in the house!) I'd like to say to my drycleaner, "Thanks for cleaning my clothes all these years, and mostly remembering my name - even though I have no idea what your name is. You seem nice and I'll miss you." And to my laundry person: "You never destroyed any of my clothes and only once did an unidentified pair of men's boxers end up in my laundry bag - Thanks! I'll miss you too."

I did tell Charlie, the ex-Mafia guy who sits on his stoop across from my apartment, that I was leaving. He gave me a 'good luck, kid' kind of farewell -- but that was like 2 weeks ago and I think he's annoyed that I am still here.

People say New York is this big anonymous city, but really every neighborhood has its regular fixtures. I don't know everyone's names, they don't know mine -- but there is a cohesiveness I'll miss.

6 Days Left...

Freaking out...

Our days now are full of goodbyes. Tomorrow we're having a farewell, engagement birthday party. I hope I can make it through. It's funny: one of the reasons for leaving the city is that because it felt lonely. But of course, now that we are going, I see we are surrounded by friends.

Crazy Empty - Except the Bathroom

I was only there for the beginning of the move -- and it was actually weirdly fun. There were four guys suddenly in our studio throwing all our belongings into boxes, ripping tape with their teeth, banging pots and pans, shoving pillows in with DVDs. We were listening to the radio -- Michael Jackson and Madonna -- and the sun was shining. It was like, 'Hey, we're moving to California and we're having a party!' Only of course, we didn’t know the guys and we were paying them $2,000.

Matt, who was in charge of hiring the moving co. and whose job it was to oversee the move, was hysterically oblivious to all crazy activity. At one point he turned to me and said, "How's the move going? I don't really have a sense of it." We live in a 400 sq. ft apartment. But he exercised the most amazing focus - on his computer, which was perched on the radiator where he was working. It cracked me up.

I left halfway through the move, when I was satisfied that they'd packed most of our stuff -- and left the things we asked them not to pack. In my infinite wisdom, I put everything that we are keeping with us to bring in our suitcases in the bathroom, so the movers knew that the bathroom stuff was all staying. Later I spoke to Matt when the move was done. He described the apartment as "crazy empty -- except for the bathroom, which is very full."