Mile Marker

Today I have lived in New York City for one day longer than I lived in San Francisco. Five years, nine months, 14 days. I suppose it's odd that I've tracked the time so closely, but it still feels like I've just landed here. I never planned on being in NYC this long. When I left Fort Lauderdale in 1995, I gave all my friends strict instructions that they were to remain exactly where I left them, so that once I finished my galivanting around the country, I could pick up my Florida life right where I left it.

But nearly a dozen years later, nobody is where I left them. Some have died, some have withdrawn, and some have moved away. Since I left Ft. Lauderdale, the highlight of every year has been my return visit over the ten days following Xmas. Up in Orlando, the minute the table was cleared of presents and turkey, I'd bolt for the southbound turnpike and spend the rest of my holiday blissfully decamped at my ex's house, spending the days on the beach and the nights in bars.

But not this year. In October, the ex left Fort Lauderdale with his thruple and the three of them are now just down the road in Philly, a move I protested against in vain, mostly out of my own loss. After Xmas this year, I limped back to NYC, feeling as if I'd watched only the first reel of a beloved holiday classic. Oh, I could have continued down to Fort Lauderdale. The always gracious Farmboyz offered me their pied-a-trois, but I declined, deciding to start new traditions here in Manhattan, rather than cling to a fading one.

My personal diaspora is now thoroughly scattered. I have no home base. It feels so strange.