I know I am supposed to tell funny stories. I guess that's why I am here, because that's why you are here. The wind is howling though and I do not feel funny at all. I am hormonal and emotional and I wish I was in New York. Chrisp air and sunshine, Mudtruck coffee in the morning and on a special day a raspberry scone from Dean & Deluca, and with all of it the clicking of high heels on the sidewalk. The fact that my spell check for mysterious reasons has changed the word sidewalk to pavement 3 times in a row and once more in this sentence isn't helping. I'm listening to a song talking about Africa and all I want is home. As in New York. Though my heart cringes in a good way when I hear the words about Africa. I am in Africa. And miss New York; silly me. There I would sit at Bua, having a Corona. After having a steak with thin fries at Mogador. Or a delivery of arepas from Caracas and Friends with my friends and Julian, the stinky cat.
I do know that even if I was there, all would be different. Two of my friends married with a little baby boy. A friend, my Mum wanted me to marry, living with his boyfriend. My bestest friend ever far away, back in Germany. So it is just me. Still dreaming of the same stuff. Everybody else has already arrived.
I was recently praised for my honesty. Praised from a guy who in the end wasn't all that interested in me. C'est la vie. So there I am with my honesty. I can't bear the thought of leaving Cape Town, I miss New York, and I don't know if I will ever … finish this sentence.
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