Two weeks ago, I turned 32-years-old. I’ve barely come to terms with the fact that half my life ago, I already owned a driver’s license and could legally drive in the State of Michigan. And now I’ve come to realize that next week marks the 10-year anniversary (the “tin” anniversary) of the date I threw everything into a U-haul and moved to New York City. Within the span of a week, I accepted a dot-com job offer, graduated from college, said goodbye to my friends and family, drove through the night and slept in a truck on the streets of Polish Brooklyn until I leased an apartment and began my new job days later. It was exactly 800 miles from my alma mater, five states away from the rest of my family and the longest week of my life.
Three years ago, I wrote a list of accomplishments to mark my 29th birthday. I won’t do that today as I’m afraid the undoing of some of those milestones would only depress me. And today isn’t a day to contemplate my own achievements, but rather to reflect on what New York City has done for me in the past decade. Read more
(by the way, the French example translates to “On the lap of the sorceress”)
