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I bought them somewhere in San Francisco, along with a new pair of sneakers equally deserving of contempt, as a twenty-fourth birthday present to myself. My then-boyfriend Dan hated the pants.
He had studied design at art school.
He had an eye for things, a knack for suitable dress. Inside that marvelous and modern full-block structure, marvels on a smaller scale: Inside, an array of shakers in a variety of styles lay in wait for their close-ups.
Other drawers and boxes held butter dishes, bone china sets, strawberry forks. So this is New York, I thought. We passed by the Martha Stewart test kitchen and into the open-plan work area.
You know, she can be surprisingly gruff. She swears like a sailor. Dan and I had been dating for about eight months.
We wanted different things from life. He wanted to display ceramic owls by Jonathan Adler on his mantelpiece and frequent terrific eateries. I wanted to read by myself in a squalid apartment and take frenzied, helmetless bike rides through town, and do as little respectable work as possible.
He had and still has, I saw him recently a flair for working regular hours at well-paying, design-related jobs. Back then I regularly abandoned gainful employment, and apartments, and boyfriends, and overdrew my checking account to stay up all night drinking with drag queens.
In any case, when Dan took me out to dinner on my birthday, I probably should have turned down his second, surprise gift: I concealed my immediate mistrust of this gift.
What kind of person, I thought, gives the gift of surprise travel? It puts needless pressure on the trip to go well, for one thing.
Dan had even asked, sensing my reluctance in the lead-up to departure, whether I was sure I felt comfortable with him taking me to New York. It would soon become clear, however, that I needed to move at my own pace while traveling, meet new people on my own, explore and possibly disrobe with life beyond the faces and places I already knew.
After all, I brought those pants. I barely bothered to conceal my bumpkin status, exhilarated by the air of the city, the electric, propulsive energy on the streets. My wandering eye clocked knee-weakening specimens on every corner.
I felt like Charles Darwin in South America, transfixed by an endless and fascinating parade of biodiversity. I was a bad boyfriend, really; I found cupcakes ridiculous.
When, after our tour of the Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia compound, we joined the designer friend and his boyfriend for a dinner date, I sat and brooded through a conversation about other New York professionals they knew, all of whom had bold plans for professional achievement.
The design friend held up a connection of his, a woman who worked in magazines, as an exemplar of long-term planning and ambition. Apparently she had risen through the ranks of whatever glossy she labored for with dazzling speed and determination.
My discomfort with the circumstances of my New York visit deepened, even as my enchantment with the place itself grew.
Dan fell asleep easily, probably owing in part to how few stimulants he consumed, but I often struggled with insomnia. That night in particular, a trapped feeling set in. The likelihood of our breaking up the moment we returned to San Francisco appeared all too clear. I crawled back into bed.A trip to new york city essay.
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A Trip to New York City. 3 Pages Words January Saved essays Save your essays here so you can locate them quickly! - New York City Every time I hear this song it makes me long to leave all of my responsibilities and head off to the city of dreams.
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