November 29, 1999

Eight years ago today I boarded a Delta airplane from TYS and flew into JFK to begin my new life as a flight attendant. I was on board with Ginger, a friend from college, and we cried the entire flight. We were greeted at the gate by Patricia McCallister, an inflight supervisor, born and raised New York, with 4-inch stillettos, 3-inch bright red nails, and 4-ft bouffant hair. Her skirt was up to here and her blouse was down to there, she called us "doll" and had us truly wondering what we had gotten ourselves into. By the time I made it to my tiny apartment on W12th St late that night I was in a daze of lights and traffic and noise. My new roommate, Tara, had driven me in from Queens and going over the Queensboro Bridge she said, "Welcome to your new playground." And I started crying again.
I don't think I stopped crying those first few months. I was so lost. Lost going to the airport, lost once I got to the airport, lost in cities and towns all over the world, just lost. But at some point, I found my way. I figured out the buses and the subway. I learned how to do my own laundry and then how to get someone else to do my laundry for me, I learned where to buy the best coffee, and how to get into museums for free. I learned the ins and outs of this terrifying city that you either love or you hate, there is no in between, but no matter how you feel about it, it captures your soul, it did mine anyway. And now, I am a little sad. I can only compare leaving to breaking up with a bad boyfriend. It's the right thing to do, the love is gone and there is more pain than joy remaining, but it still hurts. The fond memories are still there, the happy times are not forgotten, just masked by recent stresses. ANd when it is all said and done, I'm sure I will love my new home, but for now I am in mourning for the loss of what has become home to me these last eight years. The place where I "grew up."