The only cities I have ever fallen in love with immediately were New York and London, but I can’t remember if it was love at first sight or a slow burn. In New York, I felt like a local. I lived in a dorm at Columbia University for three weeks. I knew where to get food, cigarettes, and beer. I spent seven days in London in 2005. So in both of these cities, I had time to get aquainted, become familiar with their curves and quirks. I could navigate my way through public transportation to any destination. It was love, not lust.
My relationship with other cities has been whirlwind- enough time to find myself slightly scared, yet yearning for more time in their streets. I dream about them at night. I stalk them online. I have had the fortune of seeing a lot of the world, and each experience leaves me needing more. I’m like a junkie. I crave travel. I need new cultures, new experiences, and new adventures. My first experience outside of the United States happened on the city streets and beaches of Jamaica. The first short story I ever wrote was inspired by that trip. Jamaica was a feast for my senses and it changed my entire perspective on the world. I have been to Paris four times, and my relationship with Paris has deepened each time from tentative loathing to gut wrenching heart destroying love. I have traveled through Greece, Italy, and France. I have been to Iconic American Cities: New Orleans, New York City, Chicago, Philadelphia, and Los Angeles. I have traveled Alaska from top to bottom and east to west.
I have seen a lot in my life- mostly for free (more about this later), and I have so many stories to tell. Sometimes my stories take the form of fiction, sometimes images, other times extreme self-reflection; but the thing they have in common is they all need an outlet. I didn’t even know that I had a writer inside me until I was 36 years old, and now it is like all of those words that were stored up inside of me are determined to flow out. I’m overwhelmed with a need to put these things down on paper and share them with you, oh unknown reader. The question is where to start?
There are so many things I need to tell you. I get confused, and don’t know which story to start with. I spend so much time trying to create perfect sentences that I just go over and over the words and never get the stories out, like an obsessive compulsive woman who checks every appliance before bed.
I think I’m going to start here- with travel.
Jamaica, London, Paris, Amsterdam, Rome, Athens, Venice, Florence, Monte Carlo, Nice- each place has its own story. Should I write chronologically? Or should I wait and see which city is calling to me with questions unanswered and probing themselves forward in my dreams?
Right now, I feel like writing about Venice. Like Paris, the first time I was there she confused me. In the eight hours I spent there, I found it destructively beautiful, terrifying and overwhelming. Venice haunts me.
Perhaps, I will begin in a floating city that inches toward its own doom.
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