New York City

So, I have survived planes, delayed transfers, getting a taxi, and 3-4 of wandering through Manhattan on my own. However, trying to transport my obscene amount of luggage from Manhattan to Queens via subway nearly did me in. And produced several missed opportunities to pull my best "High Southern" accent and comment that "I have always relied on the kindness of strangers."

So what's the first thing to be done in New York City -- after dropping baggage off at the complimentary American Girl Place coat check, that is -- well, if you're me, it seems to be wandering about St. Patrick's -- either a church or a cathedral, and I can't seem to remember which -- taking pictures with the other tourists, and feeling guilty about infringing on someone's sacred space with a camera in hand. (I killed the flash and relied on a slower shutter speed, but still I felt bad.) Some of pictures looked like they came out decently on the LCD screen. My hands weren't as steady as they could have been due to the after effects of hauling stuff through a couple of airports. Once I get my computer connected to the 'Net, I'll share anything worthwhile.

Flying in was interesting -- the weather was clear, so I got a good view of the city. Oh my lady! It just keeps going. It's madness! Mind you, the closest I've gotten to New York before is films. I feel very provincial. It's also very green up in the north -- major change from poor drought condition Hampshire.

Taxi ride -- I thought people needed a death wish before driving in Memphis. They also have these interesting little rickshaw/bicycle powered taxi numbers. And I saw one brave person rollerskating on the streets in Manhattan.

I think I'm going to sit in Kelly's apartment and take it easy until she gets off work. Mostly because I don't know how to lock the door back after I leave, and I'm not comfortable leaving it unlocked. And partly because all the overwhelmed I didn't feel yesterday hit today.

The Rich Young Metra

There's something about packing and moving that inspires the ascetic in me. It's a weak inspiration and one that has yet to make it to maturity, but it's there. It was there in spades as the sister, the friend, and I tried to fit a bit over two years worth of dorm room accumulation into a Camry and a Scion. (I haven't moved off-campus since the end of freshman year.) At such times, I begin to contemplate getting rid of oh, say, 75% of the things I own. Maybe knocking it down to essential clothes. And then, like Saint Jerome, my attempts at simplicity die in the face of my love for my library. My preciouses, my babies, my books.

I'm leaving the state of Tennessee the day after tomorrow en route to Russia for the next four and a half months. I have a goal of taking as luggage: one 32 inch rolling duffel bag, one small carry-on bag, and my backpack (also as a carry-on). And, I think I'm going to be able to pull it off, but I'm having to get pretty creative. The heavy, canvas outer layer of my coat is now rolled up and strapped to the backpack -- that helps. Sweaters have been compacted in ziploc bags. Books are cut down to some necessary plane reading, Russian texts and dictionary, and my collection of Blok poems in translation. And I'm still struggling to make things fit into the bags. It's a game of Tetris -- I'm confident that things will fit, but I'm pretty certain that there is only one possible way that they all will fit.

And then, there's this weird awareness in the back of my head that many people don't have enough to fill up the bags I'm taking, and a separate awareness that I probably all of what I'm packing to live out the rest of my life, much less the next four months.

I'm hoping that living out of a 32 inch duffel bag for four months will convince me to let go of most the rest of my stuff. At least, the majority of the remaining clothes. The books won't happen -- I've just accepted that as a fact of my current existence and fact of cycling through another few rebirths before hitting true enlightenment.