"112th and Central Park West, please."

It's the last time I'll utter those words for a while.

I'm leaving on a jet plane in a few hours and once again, I'm saying goodbye to the city. But this trip has made it clear to me that one day, I must be back here. Hopefully I'll have found a job and be living in an apartment I like and maybe, if I'm lucky, be in love as well.

My first destination yesterday afternoon after a lazy morning under the hot sun of my apartment window was the Korin store on Warren Street. Surrounded by so many professional chefs, I've learned that a good knife is the start to good cooking so I bought my first "real" knife, a 210mm Togiharu gyutou. It's a carbon steel knife which means it will rust if I don't use it but it also means that it keeps its edge just a little bit longer. Good thing because I tend to lose my edge when I'm back in the confines of Hollywood wonderland Los Angeles. I've been taught how to sharpen the blade and as soon as I get a stone, the smell of my own blood mixed with iron will fill the air of my new apartment. That's how you know you're doing it right.

From Korin I wandered to the Lower East Side to stop into one of my favorite boutiques called Honey in the Rough. Ashley, the curly-haired proprietor of the store is on vacation so I didn't get to thank her in person for the postcard she sent me in LA thanking me for my purchases. The streets emanated the heat of the reflected sun, concrete hoarding the warmth of the day only to release it through the night. I made my way north to the East Village where I met Felipe and friends at Luzzo's for pizza and conversation. It just sort of happened. The Caesar salad Felipe and I shared was delicious with a slick, fishy dressing and hard, crunchy croutons. Two pizzas were ordered, a Tartufata and an Arugola, and both were incredible. Just as I remembered.

I shopped at Filene's Basement in Union Square and had a late night snack with my roommate Karen at Pongsri Thai on 23rd and 7th. She had pad thai with tofu and I pad see-ew with tofu and we chatted about our lives. Returning to the apartment, Karen lasted nary 15 minutes before passing out and I took phone calls from friends who needed to be caught up.

This morning, I left for A Tempo, a boutique on the Upper West Side which had a necklace I needed for a friend. From there I wandered along Amsterdam and Broadway and picked up the necessary items for tonight's event.. mainly I needed baby powder because I was so sweaty all day and a nail clipper. I met Felipe at Niko's on 76th and Broadway for a quick Greek plate of antipasti. I haven't had good Greek food in a month and I was really hurting for some tarama and hummus.

It was then time to pretty-up for the James Beard Awards, the reason I was back. Felipe helped me with my dress and out the door into the 90 degrees we went. We hailed a cab and stopped at a Starbucks before I walked up the red carpet to go know what I needed to know. Outside Starbucks, Felipe and I encountered Bruce Willis, Demi Moore and two of their children. I didn't recognize them as I was focused on my tall iced green tea latte but heard Demi's voice and turned to see Felipe's face in that controlled expressive state of surprise.

He left me at the awards while I waited for my new boss to arrive and watched chef after chef walk the red carpet and stop for paparazzi and interviewers galore. Food is big now, friends. Bigger than most people would have expected. Big to the point where there's actually a red carpet now at Lincoln Center which is traversed by the cooks we've exhalted and the people they've fed or wed or hired to help them.

The ceremony was filled with tributes and acknowledgments. It was kind and respectful and full of admiration. There were famous chefs, products of the Food Network star-making machine (Bobby Flay.) There were badass chefs who ran about the stage as if they'd owned it their whole lives (Masaharu Morimoto and Michel Richard.) There were chefs who spoke calmly to a crowd rapt by their words (Thomas Keller and Grant Achatz.) It was a black tie affair with all the hype of a big splashy awards show except the catering at this event was probably better than anything the Oscars has ever seen.

My chef did not win the award for which he was nominated but he was unfazed. It's still about the cooking afterall and the family he has built in the restaurants he has opened. At the reception after the show, it was all about eating and drinking and hugging old friends. For me, I just tried to be useful by remembering names and polite by not speaking with my mouth full and graceful by not stepping on the train of the red BCBG Max Azria gown I wore while holding clutch purse and programs in one hand, food and drink in the other. In my patent leather blush pink heels. The ones Chef Dong Choi calls "ridiculous."

I left the party around 11pm and walked alone to the line of taxis waiting to ferry revelers to their hotels and homes. I gave the driver my destination and as we drove north along Amsterdam Avenue, I kid you not, the lights turned green one after another as we approached every street. Sixty blocks and we only stopped once.

I leave in 7 hours and I should be asleep now but the lingering warmth of the day has permeated into night and my room is too stuffy for comfort. And part of me, a small bit, doesn't want this to end, this love affair. Until I find my person in life, I will always pine for the city where I loved to be. I will come back to it and for it.

a month and a day

I'm back in the space where I used to lay. I'm sitting in my bed in my apartment in Manhattan. In the apartment I still rent. For a month and three days, I'm bi-coastal.

The smells are familiar. The soap from my roommates' bathroom. The trees across the street. The stillness of humid summer air in the stairwell. I've missed this city.

When I first got back to LA, I immediately felt the absence of skyscrapers and beveled windows. But my time here was so short relative to my life there that moments arose when I had to remind myself that I once lived in this city. That I used to be a New Yorker. I was so happy to see my friends who had celebrated my departure with hope and encouragement. It felt right to be back but now that I'm here again, I'm all goopy inside. And it's not the H and H bagel with cream cheese and smoked salmon I just devoured. Nor is it the jet lag. It's the ache of knowing that I will have to leave brokenhearted.

oh, it's what you did to me

I've smelled the urine of your detractors. I've rumbled through the tunnels beneath you. I have molded the snow in your park and jogged its paths. I've gifted you with my personal economic stimulus package. I've admired your bucolic upstate. I've been disappointed by your produce.

I've dodged the squealing smaller versions of you as they ran past knee and under foot. I've stopped in my tracks at museums and parks where they hover in swarms around confounding adult objects that give them pause from school. I have sat pensive next to your Harlem Meer. There, I ate a bagel with cream cheese and lox.

I have navigated you, finger to my Moleskine with its MTA map, eyes to your signs. I have listened, peered down the stairs and made a run for it. I've backtracked and moved forward. I found shelter under your awnings and your umbrellas.

I've given up the practice of my personal journalism in order to be exhausted by the innumerable, careful steps taken to traverse you. To round your corners and ascend your hills. Some grey, some green. I have bantered with your shopkeepers and your brassy commuters. I've heard slang, swear words and Senegalese.

I've pulled jackets off my sweaty arms as the air changed from the cold outside kind to the stuffy inside kind. I've slapped my hands around the brushed metal poles of your trains and caught the bugs of my fellow citizens. I have sat in the beams of your sunlight and warmed myself like a lizard.

I have photographed your unsuspecting near and far. Tricolore salad and train car. I've grown fat with your offerings and my hourly decisions to accept them. You are quite literally a part of me.

I have admired and mocked your businessmen. I've envied the rings of your fiancées. I've smiled at your stroller-bound babies. I thought ruefully of home while you stood tall and proud around me. I've cursed slow-moving tourists.

I've been tousled and jostled by your finest. I've fallen asleep on your rails. I've turned myself out of revolving doors in the base of office buildings. Out into your brisk pace. My ankles have faltered on your ridges. Here, I have wondered about my weakness. I left you for spells and returned to call you home.

I have stood breathless in Times Square and squinted, awe-struck, at the lights above. I've been swindled by your resourceful homeless. But I've not had any change to spare. Only enough for my own.

I have freed myself of regret. I left myself behind. I have loved you and for a brief and glorious time, I was yours.

the duck wasn't the only one

As rich people get richer, so do their tastes. You move from polyester to cotton to silk. From a Civic to an Altima to a BMW. And as their preferences grow, so does their ennui. What was once an achievement, like dating a supermodel for example, becomes a bland fact requiring a bit of variation. A lot of cocaine, say, can keep mundane supermodels interesting. As food boredom goes, you evolve from Cheesecake Factory to Spago to Per Se to The Fat Duck where you are challenged in all your senses by Heston Blumenthal's sensitive and thoughtful madcap experiments. Experiments which he has perfected over the years to yield an amusing and tasty dinner.

Much like many fine dining establishments dangling at the end of dirt roads in nondescript towns, we arrived in Bray around 8:30pm to find the only real source of light to be that of a lonely pub. The restaurant was unmarked except for an official city notice painted above the door which read "H. BLUMENTHAL AUTHORISED TO OPERATE BUSINESS FROM THESE PREMISES." Were there not fellow diners leaving when we walked up, we may not have found it at all.

Inside, it's a small dining room which seats 47 and behind it a small kitchen which fits about 6. It's tiny. The prep kitchen is across the street we were told as we were seated immediately and settled in for what would be over 3 hours of complicated food.

We were poured a splash of Krug and then a palate cleanser of egg white foam with lime, vodka and a dusting of green tea arrived. The foam was sprayed into a pot of liquid nitrogen and rolled around with spoons until it formed a small ping pong ball. The exterior was crisp like meringue and when I bit into it I was informed that liquid nitrogen "steam" flew from my nostrils as I exhaled the delicately tart flavor of lime. How bullish of me.

The bread served was moist and stretchy like an airy rubber. The butter, unpasteurized and enveloping, was fabulous. The flavor emanating a completeness which I've never tasted before. We could have eaten only this for our entire meal. Canapes which arrived included Native oysters in a passion fruit jelly with lavender. The oyster was fresh and pleasantly briny. Pommery grain mustard ice cream was served in a small quenelle over diced cucumber as a red cabbage gazpacho was poured at the table. A beautiful dish with its floating island of flecked yellow in a sea of magenta. The flavor was spicy with a bit of tannin from the cabbage. My nose tingled with a hit of mustard. What followed was mind blowing.

A box topped with wet oak moss was set between Gareth and me as we each then received a small oval bowl tilted towards us on a pedestal. Think 60s pod chair. Inside was a parfait of foie gras in a pool of langoustine cream hiding a quail jelly on top of green pea purée. On an accompanying plate was a slice of toast black with truffle and topped with radish and parsley. The oak moss box was filled with dry ice and as the waiter poured hot water into a small opening, the ripples of white steam flowed over the lush greenery. You smelled the moist darkness of the forest and as you ate all the elements together, you could taste the underbrush of wood and earth.

Next came snail porridge which was escargots on top of a green porridge of oats made with parsley, garlic, butter and chicken bouillon. Strands of Jabugo ham and shaved fennel rested on top. The snails were chewy and soft and the porridge was gentle and creamy. The parsley oil held the garlic at bay keeping our palates neutral. Foie gras which I can only imagine was sous vided came next. The foie was perfectly cooked and decorated with shaved almonds and chives. On the plate were brushstrokes of black cherry coulis and a chamomile emulsion. Tiny cubes of almond extract jelly sat in a row to the side. This was one of my favorite dishes as the acidity and brightness of cherries and almond lifted the heavy foie gras and sent it sliding across the tongue. At moments, I tasted the black duck eggs common in Chinese markets with their hint of ammonia. One of my favorite courses.

Earlier in the evening, I had watched a 6-top of grown men listening to conch shells outfitted with iPod shuffles. Some closed their eyes to concentrate on the sounds I could only imagine. When it was my turn, I was completely bowled over by what happened. Emanating from the iPod earphones snaking from the conch shell was sounds of seagulls and the crush of the ocean along the sand. Somewhat subconsciously, I felt the cool of the sea and the salt in the air. We were served a simple but gorgeous vessel that was a box with sand with a glass plate lofted above. On the plate was a section of the shore. To the left, tapioca flour with tiny, crunchy fried baby eels designed to look and feel a bit like sand. To the right, a shellfish foam that replicated the surf. Along the "coast," a mussel, razor clam slices and another Native oyster were served with four different kinds of seaweed, some dark purple, some green, all gorgeous. This is one of Heston's signature dishes and I was in awe. The foam mixed with the sand was salty and crunchy and made a perfect compliment to the sea creatures on the plate. If you listened carefully over the recorded surf, you could hear my synapses chatting excitedly and my taste buds hugging in celebration.

The act that followed this tough one was poached salmon wrapped in a licorice gelée which I didn't care for. The plating was exact with dots of balsamic reduction and individual pieces of grapefruit pulp creating a colorful pattern. Artichokes and vanilla mayonnaise didn't help the bland salmon which, to be fair, was cooked perfectly. The licorice was too subtle and didn't add anything interesting to the taste. This disappointment was quickly erased by a ballotine of Anjou pigeon (squab) which was soft, bloody and flavorful with a hint of Asian influence. It came with a streak of black pudding and was a grand finale for the savory path of our adventure.

Hot and cold tea? Indeed. A soft jelly was made out of black and somewhat Orange Pekoe tea with a bit of sweetness and a hint of lemon. However, two temperatures were introduced in one small glass. When you drank it, your tongue was bathed in cold and warm sensations which were pleasantly puzzling. Then followed a small sugared tuille cornet with a story about a woman named Mrs. Marshall who may have been the originator of ice cream in the mid-1800s. The cornet, decorated along the rim with alternating white and pink dots of sugar, was filled with orange and ginger granita and then topped with apple cinnamon ice cream. The flavors were light and the cornet was crunchy and crumbly.

Then the silliness began anew as vanilla beans arrived with a small paper pouch filled with a subtle sweet powder infused with Douglas fir. It was like uber-strange Fun Dip. The vanilla bean was hard and texture in what I guessed was to imitate tree bark. It prepared us for the mango and Douglas fir puree which was placed on top of a lychee bavarois with black currant sorbet. A pleasantly fruity plate, you didn't taste a lot of Douglas fir but mainly the tart roundness of mango and black currant.

It was now finally time for breakfast which started with individual boxes of parsnip cereal brought to us in small bowls accompanied with parsnip milk in a creamer. The parsnip chips were crunchy but a little difficult to chew at times and the parsnip milk was a touch overwhelming with its intense parsnip flavor. After a bit of a wait, a copper pot arrived tableside with a burner that seemed to be out of gas. Then a waiter appeared with eggs and utensils and said "It appears that I have no more gas so I will have to make breakfast with liquid nitrogen instead." The eggs were stamped with the Fat Duck setting and cracked into the pot as liquid nitrogen was added. What came out of the shells though was not a white and a yolk but rather an egg yolk and heavy cream mixture which was instantly frozen with the liquid nitrogen to yield ice cream. It was flavored with a hint of bacon and ladled on top of a take on french toast and a slice of streaky pancetta dried and candied to look like bacon. It was a breakfast for sugar fiends. More tea jelly arrived as we cracked into the bruléed slice of toast with eggs and bacon. The ideas were ingenious but I didn't particularly enjoy the flavors, salty bacon, sweet ice cream "eggs" which I found to be too intense.

We neared the goodbye. But not before being presented with a picture frame and in it, a map of Scotland and to the side, one of Tennessee where in each region, 5 different whiskey gums had been affixed. When you peeled each gum off, it revealed the name of the area. The gums were soft and chewy with intensely different whiskey flavors. As a non-alcoholic, they were bitter to me but the idea was creative and I had a blast learning about the drunken fixation of the Scottish on their firewater.

And finally...the mignardises. It was after 1am and Gareth and I were ready to roll out the door and make our way back to London. We nibbled on aerated Mandarin orange chocolates which were small domes with Mandarin orange puree under the top and filled with bubbly chocolate at the base. We crunched into orange infused carrot lollipops and bit into violet tartelets which were dark purple gels in sablé crust shells. We chewed on apple pie caramels which were in edible, clear wrappers. At last, we paid our bill and wandered into the dark street.

It was a fascinating meal. Mostly tasty and wholly intriguing, I was mindful of the care that went into each dish and the ideas had during a flash of inspiration which ultimately found their way to the plates and serving vessels in front of us. It is not a meal for comfort or for practicality. It was a dazzling show which incited evaluation and complimented a marriage proposal (she appeared to say yes as she couldn't stop smiling as she passed our table to go to the ladies' room.) A special night indeed which impressed both Gareth and me.

Up the road we could see the light of the parking lot but mostly, it was black with the faint outline of trees above us illuminated by faint moonlight. Good thing though because black is slimming and that night, the duck wasn't the only one that was fat.

at approximately 5pm local time

About ten hours ago, I made the delicious mistake of ordering chocolat chaud Laduree at the famed patisserie Laduree which one can only find in Paris and at Harrods department store in London. It was a thick, dark mess of drinking chocolate with which I also ate three macarons, one chocolate, one pistachio and one lemon. I think the unusual introduction of a large dosage of caffeine into my blood is what's keeping me awake right now at 3am London time. The perfect time to write.

As arrogantly promised to my darling friend Gareth, I have brought sunshine and warm weather to this normally dreary city. The day I arrived, it had been gloomy for about a month. I took the tube from Heathrow to Gareth's flat in Covent Garden and literally watched the sun emerge, marveling at my ability to move clouds. I needed to refuel.

I picked up a small sandwich from Paul Patisserie which is across the street from Gareth's. Cured ham with lettuce, tomato and BUTTER on a poppyseed baguette. I'd forgotten that Europeans enjoy butter on their sandwiches instead of the typical mayonnaise. It was tasty and oily.

The sun shone on us, a caravan of Gareth, Claire, mother of two gallivanting youths Mackenzie (10) and Tavish (8) and Anila (10), friend and conspirator of Mackenzie. The kids had just seen a screening of Nim's Island and each carried complicated and fantastic balloon animals, the most impressive of which was a pelican which slowly lost its body parts as beak and intestine popped during our day out. Anila took the injuries quite well.

We mounted the tube to Camden where we strolled amongst the funky clothing stalls and food vendors. Whoever said punk was dead hasn't been to Camden lately as there was spikey hair and boots everywhere. Blacklights and fluorescent strips of fabric galore. We walked into a shop called Cyberdog where a half-naked raver gyrated in the corner. The children were unfazed as they headed straight to the "electric" t-shirts that came with battery packs and animated light designs.

From Camden we walked along the canal past the London Zoo to Primrose hill where a race to the top was won by me, the jetlagged, slowest (but steadiest) member of the party. Gareth had piggybacked Tavish. Anila had run for a bit and then collapsed in giggles on the moist grass. Claire had offered an effort but slowed after a few meters. I simply trudged slowly and tried not to step in poo. I don't know how I won really.

After admiring the view from Primrose Hill, we headed northwest to Claire's where a real Scottish haggis from Scotland awaited us. On the bus, Claire and I discussed the poem "Under Milk Wood" by Dylan Thomas which I had recently heard due to a link the Duke had sent me. It's an incredible poem that jumps and darts from the page. There were references that I hadn't understood after looking it up online and emailing it to myself so I produced my Blackberry and asked Claire, the student of poetry, for answers. It was English Poetics class on a double decker bus. Educated British people are great.

I'm probably the only person who was excited about the haggis. Bits of sheep, ground up and stinky, shoved into a sheep's stomach casing...come on! I took it out of the fridge while Gareth rocked the kids in Wii games. It smelled of the farm, of wet, molding hay. It looked like a large turnip with the ridges of the stomach lining making like the peel. Claire set about cooking dinner while I tackily fell asleep in Tavish's room because of my rudeness and fatigue. I slept like a dream and it rained while I was out. Coincidence? Or my inability to control clouds while unconscious?

Had I not taken in the stench of the haggis prior to eating it, I probably would have enjoyed it a bit more but really, it was palatable and gamey. The stuffing was soft and crumbly like meatloaf and in addition to it, we had cauliflower with cheese, organic chicken (which was skinnier than most but raised in a "happy" way, the type Mackenzie has mandated that Claire must cook from now on) with roasted potatoes. There was another dish of carrots and cauliflower of which I've now forgotten the name. Oh and we had peas. Delicious peas in England which I suppose are already English peas. In Los Angeles, there'd be a notation made.

This city is a wonderland of European cultures. As snotty as the English can be, they exist amongst the immigrants from countries all around in a stiff harmony. As I walked the streets today, I heard languages and saw newspapers that I didn't understand. A rarity which reminds me of how small a life can shrink.

A dear friend Vanessa called me for lunch at the last minute this afternoon and we had Indian tapas which was fantastic. Curry chicken with various sides including a dish with lentils, yogurt, raisins and some crispy bits that was fantastic. We caught up on events over the past year and half since we'd seen each other. She returned to her volunteer work during her vacation week (admirable!) while I went to Harrods. We met for dinner at the Prince of Wales Pub in Covent Garden where we both had fish and chips over which we bitched about boys. The fish was soft and flakey and the batter was crisp and fragrant. More peas arrived along with chips and for both Vanessa and me, swirls of Heinz ketchup.

After dinner, Gareth and I walked across the Millenium Bridge to the Oxo building and had drinks and a cheese plate while we watched couples around us slather themselves in each other. To quote Homer Simpson (as this bar did also) "Alcohol, the source of and answer to all of life's problems." I suppose life cancels itself out. Although the drunken street rat who harassed Gareth for money didn't seem to have an antidote. As he brushed my hip with his hand and said "I'm hung low," I was glad to be alert thanks to Laduree's chocolate which still courses through me although the adrenaline of the encounter is gone.

New York has inadvertently prepared me well for this trip. The city doesn't seem as jarring as it did last time. The weather is familiar and the habits of keeping money and subway pass close to my body are automatic now. It's a city of soot and pedestrians like New York. It's got banking and culture. It's got parks and neighborhoods that elbow each other. It has an appreciation for the rest of the world that New York has. An appreciation which I forget in myself during long periods of domestication.

More to report soon as I have dinner at The Fat Duck on my agenda as well as a trip to the British Museum where the pilfering ways of the English have yielded an incredible, if scandalous, collection of artifacts which always render me in awe of humanity and the evolution of human society.

big fat rain

It's here! It's April and it's spring. The weather has finally warmed and bare skin is out in bloom. The trees in Central Park are shivering with new leaves. The ground is yawning awake with daffodils.

The posts have become sparse over the past month because I've been busy working. The days of wine and roses or in my case fresh squeezed orange juice and idle shopping have faded into a blur of production assistant work and helping out on a photo shoot. The shine of Manhattan became tarnished with 5:30am call times which resulted in the common cold which stayed the course of a 2-day photo shoot. Good thing the models were cookies and cheesecake and not wafer-thin models with weak immune systems.

My days on set were long and I didn't realize I was becoming ill. I thought I was merely a large wimp with no desire to get near a director or a famous actor, unlike many of my colleagues working on WANTED re-shoots. The first day I was outside in 40 degree wind for about 12 hours. By the end of the day, I was half asleep in the holding area where I guarded the personal effects of extras with little to no gumption. The second day on set was much more pleasant both in weather and in company. I was assigned to a lead production assistant from LA and we spoke of the sunny city we missed. It was a great experience for me to see the nuts and bolts of where the money I'd see approved in an office faraway would go. From the signature page of a greenlight package to the hiring of a somnolent assistant to direct pedestrians away from the location of a chase scene, the view was very different.

The photo shoot was for Self magazine. I had been introduced to the food stylist through my eating partner Molly. Ed was a lot of fun to work with and a total genius about faking delicious food. A former chef and restauranteur, he had a depth of knowledge which bridged the gap between creating the illusion of something tasty and the actual creation of something tasty. The studio was the quintessential and cliched "movie version" of what a photo studio would be. Big windows, thin gossamer curtains, a view of the Hudson River, white walls. A stocked kitchen with pots and utensils, bowls and counter space. I wanted to live there. But instead, I'm leaving to go back to LA. By the time I go, I would have been a New Yorker for three glorious months minus one trip west, one trip to Boston and one trip to London (since it's so close.)

Yesterday, I ran the curvy perimeter of Harlem Meer which is a small pond near our corner of Central Park. I saw a man catch a largemouth bass. I stomped on the wet dirt and smiled at the freshness of spring. The air was warm and I strolled through Nolita with Molly after dinner at Eight Mile Creek marveling at the change that occurs during a day here. It was overcast, then mild and warm, then sunny. An unpredictable mix of thaw that the city and its inhabitants enjoy.

Dinner was adventurous, emu carpaccio served with rocket (arugula) and lemon with a slathering of fragrant black truffle oil. The dish was surprisingly meaty with the dark, blood-rich emu slices covering the entire plate. We also tried a crawfish soba with miso butter which was good in flavor but soft and pasty in texture due to overcooked soba noodles.

For our entrees, Molly had rack of lamb with garlic mashed potatoes and a rocket salad. The lamb was tender and cooked more rare than she ordered but it suited the meat well. I had seared Maine scallops in a mild curry sauce with a cellophane noodle salad that had carrot and (what?) more rocket. Everything was good.

Dessert was ordered because of its name really.. LAMINGTONS! LAMINGTONS! are sponge cakes dipped in chocolate and covered in dry coconut flakes. One came with a strawberry jam center and both were served with whipped cream. The sponge cake was a bit dry and the combination made Molly exclaim "This is something someone liked eating as a child." It grew on me though as I sipped a mild chamomile tea.

Coming out of the subway on my way home, I was met with a sudden downpour of big, fat raindrops. I laughed as I pulled out my umbrella, the water coming down in waves as if every apartment dweller on Frederick Douglass Boulevard came to their street-facing window with a kitchen sink hose and pulled the trigger. My pant legs were soaked. I looked at the splashes in the puddles at my feet, crowns the size of half dollars popping open and splashing into the sooty mess that drained slowly into the street. It was wonderful. I'm sad to leave it.

seating chart

In October of 2006, while suffering the worst of broken hearts I'd ever had the pain of enduring, I took a trip to London. I needed a respite from the places where we'd been. The physical reminders often led to the recollection of the metaphorical ones. Where were we? Oh, in the courtyard of the Getty Center. But really where we were was in love. When you're sad the good memories, the pockets of time when love was pristinely inspiring and wholly encompassing, become the worst memories. The ones that make you run. I ran away from the city that reeked of that boy.

On the plane, I sat next to a man with a lovely voice. A listening voice, I called it. He wore a dress shirt and a red tie. I noticed his Esquire magazine tucked into his seat pocket and when I innocently asked him about an article in it, what began was an eight-hour conversation that carried us over the fruited planes and the Atlantic ocean. The broken heart tumbled from my lips. He consoled me with his own tale of great woe. About his incredible chance meeting, courtship of, marriage to and ultimately divorce from a woman he met while in search of an art museum in Budapest. I listened for hours. We spoke of his family and of mine. We spoke of the future. We spoke of sustaining the hope of love. We spoke of New York where he had once lived. After London and Paris, I'm headed to New York, I told him. A place where I've always wanted to live, I said. He encouraged me to follow my dream. I nodded in agreement but deep down inside, in the same place where the truest reasons for my break-up hid, I admitted to myself that I was chickenshit. I looked at this man who seemed to believe that I would actually move to New York and felt like I was merely appeasing him. Little did I know.

We parted ways at Heathrow. He wished me luck. I wrote down his story in my travel journal and a year later when I decided to move, I thought of him. I thought about the timbre of his voice, of his calm, dare I say suave demeanor, of his inability to stop believing that love would find him again. I wished that I could tell him that I was moving to New York afterall. An act that seemed so obvious to him yet that eluded me for so long.

I've been away for almost two months but I'm back in L.A. for a week. I'm celebrating Easter which last year, ended a period of grave depression for me. It was a Lent I will never forget. As I planned my week of sunshine and long hugs with the people I've missed, I set aside tonight for a particular person who ended up not being available. In lieu of that dinner, I went out with my friend Kristen. We had originally planned on going to Hugo's on Riverside but then thought a drive was in order so we headed to West Hollywood where I thought Lucques would be a better option. Suzanne Goin can really cook.

As we were seated, we both became sympathetically aware of the couple next to us on a first date. Kristen had a view of the woman and I faced the man. He spoke to her about something inane and awkward like any real first date requires. Their questions to each other were innocuous and forcibly innocent. He seemed sweet. He seemed like he was trying to drag a large stone to the surface of a deep, uncertain ocean. It was painful. It was him. By the grace of an unforeseen seating chart, the man from the plane was again sitting next to me. I whispered to Kristen that I knew this man. I would tell her the details later. My heart raced for a spell. I ate my black grouper with pea shoots, creme fraiche and cara cara oranges (fantastic) with mild distraction. I waited until it was time to leave and as he continued a story about something inevitably designed to seem interesting, I interrupted.

He remembered me. He said "You're the poet." I briefly told his date our story and then reminded him of our discussion about moving to New York. I'd actually done it despite my fears. He was congratulatory and thought that he had convinced me somehow. I let him have that. I told him I recognized his voice. He laughed. He asked me if we had exchanged business cards on our flight. We hadn't. Last night, he didn't have one on him and I'm not one of those types. I told him that I was sure we'd run into each other again and wished them both a good night. With some people, it's ok to play a game of musical chairs.

I told Kristen the man's story in the car on the way home. She agreed that I had had no choice but to say hello. I think his date may have been so impressed by this random coincidence that I might have helped him score some pleasantly unexpected ass. Unexpected because this time around, I realized that while he is truly hopeful for love, he's sort of a boring man. But fortunately, my life isn't boring. My life is amazing.