I’ve been in Manhattan for five nights now and I still don’t feel entirely back at home yet. This year has seen me all over the place, from California to London, Geneva to New Jersey, and the only constant has been my big black Tumi suitcase.
Last week I worked out that this year I have only spent 78 days in New York, the city which is ostensibly my home. I’ve seen little of my friends here, and can count on my fingers how many times I’ve had a night out in Manhattan since March.
Yet New York is incontrovertibly my home. I feel torn: one one hand there is the constant pulling feeling that I should be exploring America whilst I can, on the other the suspicion that my restlessness is caused by a fear of settling down, of making a commitment, and that I should just stay put for a while.
My time in New Jersey with my wonderful hosts must necessarily end soon: there is a limit to how long they can be expected to put up with me, and I need to decide what to do next. I had hoped to be in Los Angeles by now, but circumstances have conspired against that move so far.
If I can fiscally support it, I am starting to think that maybe the best plan is to find an apartment in New York, move my possessions here from London, NY, Chelsea and where ever else, and then sublet it for weeks/months at a time when I want to be in LA.
Meanwhile I am in New York until around the 28th. Hopefully I will have come to a conclusion by then.