The last time I saw Julia, a man took our picture with a Polaroid camera and said the bright white of the flash would dissipate from our faces after it developed. He lied, maybe not on purpose, but he did. In it, we look like two friendly ghosts. We kept waiting for it to get darker as we ate pizza and salad in Crown Heights after a gig of hers at The Owl on Rogers Avenue, but it never did.
The day I see her again, so many months later--a phenomenon not unusual for anyone these days, I’m sure--we’re sitting under a peachy pink umbrella on a hot summer afternoon, drinking frose cocktails I’m sure meant for women who wear leggings to brunch and won’t shut up about SoulCycle. But we don’t care, it’s hot out, steamy, the kind of heat that makes your clothes cling to your chest, and a basic bitch cocktail is the perfect remedy.
*
The lightness I feel in my chest knowing B&H Dairy continues to survive the pandemic is practically levitating. SJT and I celebrate such a feat by dining there live and in person, and I am dunking my fresh mozzarella on challah bread into cold, cold borscht as if it hasn’t felt like decades since I was there last time. We slurp iced coffees and clink silver spoons against white ceramic bowls while young teens walk by dressed like they’re auditioning for The Craft. Ah youth, I smile, watching their Doc Martens amble past. I’m glad joy presents itself for me now less as trying to look cool and more like going shopping for vintage cookbooks at Bonnie Slotnick’s with SJT. While we are there, a woman named Jeannie tells us that eight short ribs is simply too many, how could you ever eat all of that. Later SJT promises to make me short ribs for my birthday, as many as I want.
*
HanOre returns from summer out of state and it’s jacket season, hers a red leather and mine the navy wool blazer I co-opted from my dad’s giveaway pile several years ago. We wrap them tighter around us as we sit at Amor y Amargo on East 6th Street in the East Village, nibbling on the roasted nuts we were required to buy by Governor Cuomo before sipping on smoky cocktails in high ball glasses. We talk about seduction and what it means to be a New Yorker, and how those things overlap. Somehow after two cocktails I am still standing and we go to Niagara a block away, the home of the Miss Manhattan reading. I miss my grungy weird little art bar and get a well drink in its honor with French fries lain across red and white checked wax paper. They’re too salty, but I don’t care. I’m just glad it’s still open.
*
Syd arrives to Le Moulin a Cafe and speaks French to the waiter. It’s so perfect he even laughs in French. I am drinking decaf iced coffee because I have been fighting insomnia but I miss the taste. The sun is hot but there’s a perfect chill in the air for my new emerald green chenille sweater, the one I love so much I have been wearing it for two days. I hardly remember what we ate because Syd--a history colleague I am delighted to also call my friend-- is so exuberant, joyful, vibrant I just remember laughing the whole time. Nobody ever comes up here, so it’s a treat when a friendly face appears. Later, we sit by the river and the sun shines and we talk about sex and television. Next to us, too close, even, an older woman undresses to absorb the sun and we’re reminded that New York is not dead.
*
As I’m preparing picnic goods for the park, I’m wondering when the last time it was that I truly entertained. It wasn’t going to be a big to-do, I was really just going to make a kugel for myself for Rosh Hashanah because last year’s turned out so well. But then I was reading Ruth Reichl’s Comfort Me with Apples and she was talking about dinners with groups of friends at Alice Waters’s house and I was inspired. I missed friends in groups and cooking for them, even with my limited skills. We found a spot near the river and unwrapped the noodle-y, dairy-full casserole laden with raisins (yes, RAISINS, because I LIKE THEM) and I gave out first then second then even third helpings. Later, I packed leftover challah and kugel into Ziploc bags for friends to take home like a real Jewish mother.
*
When Magali meets me in Long Island City, we go to a French bakery, a miraculously independent business trembling under the weight of all that too-new, too-nothing glass and concrete dotting the river and blocking the sun. I have a long, crusty (in a good way) ficelle with ham and butter and a chai tea and we sit in the sun, a parade of pups going by. I roll my eyes at dogs in strollers because honestly, what the hell is that even. Magali tells me about Zurich, where people have special bags they put their clothes and belongings in so they can swim home from work. I would never, ever want to swim in the East River, but I saw once in a documentary that people actually do it. I nibble on the ficelle as I consider the possibility. What doesn’t kill you makes you more of a New Yorker.
Step 1: Move to New York. Step 2: Have experiences.
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Sunday, October 4, 2020
Thursday, July 11, 2019
Have Some More
Our bowls of pasta arrived sometime recently, but I don’t remember because time began slowing once our broccoli rabe appetizer, accented with strips of crispy pancetta, arrived at our table.
I am with my friend NE, human glitter, a poet who brims with shine and sparkle and intellect and knows how to appreciate joy and pleasure in big and small bites. We will be having dinner at Fiaschetteria Pistoia, which I will soon learn is a sliver of Tuscan culinary heaven on Christopher Street, where a man with tattoos in the window makes fresh pasta by hand, BY HAND, spinning dough into strips that will eventually become spaghetti, pappardelle, and lord knows what else. Waiting for NE in the tiny hallway next to a kitchen cordoned off by glass, I watch as another man makes slabs of veal in a pan, tossing in generous heaps of olive oil while the cast iron sizzles the meat to a light brown. Small plates of pasta, artichokes, vegetables leave the tiny kitchen window and exit into the room decorated with exposed brick painted white. A Keith Haring poster of Rome and another for Italian ice cream dot the walls. When we sit down at a tiny gray marble table, the words “Fresh Pasta is Never Al Dente Because it Was Never Dried” float above our heads.
We rip slices of bread, offered to us in a tiny brown paper bag, into a olive oil from an equally tiny ramekin. A waiter offers us wine from a selection of empty bottles, each tagged with ‘White’ and ‘Red’ like Alice’s bottles in Wonderland are with ‘Eat Me’ or ‘Drink Me.’ We don’t, instead pouring ourselves water from a repurposed bottle etched with what look like window panes.
NE is talking when the broccoli rabe arrives, its green stalks and florets dipped deliciously in olive oil, but I don’t remember what she says because I slide a chunk of it into my mouth with a sliver of pancetta and my brain stops working, the broccoli falling apart next to the crunch of the pancetta, releasing flowers and spices onto my tongue. She stops mid-sentence, eager to “have what I’m having” as When Harry Met Sally would say, and takes a bite. We look at each other, eyes wide. Wow.
We make our way through the small plate loaded with the shiny green vegetable until there’s just a little bit left.
“Have some more,” NE says.
“You have some more!” I say back, pointing a fork at her.
We both giggle and take each other’s advice. A lone floret rests on the edge of the plate when a waiter tries to remove it, but I make him pause so I can give it to NE. A smile spreads wide across her face.
Our pasta arrives in two small bowls lined with blue trim. I slide mine toward me, ribbony pappardelle made yellow by the redness of a bolognese-style ragu. I'm careful not to “chow down,” and remember to taste. The silken pasta glides next to the chunky, meaty ragu and slowly my brain begins to stop working again. I have trouble forming sentences. I try not to speak because that means more time I’m not eating. And NE is having the same experience with her Cacio e Pepe, this hand-rolled spaghetti with pecorino and black pepper that’s tangy and creamy at the same time. I taste it and eat it with all manner of impropriety, nibbling the strands of pasta from my fork one by one.
We go back to our own dishes, but NE insists. “Have some more!”
When I hear her say it this time, I realize she is not just saying to keep indulging in Cacio e Pepe. Enjoy, she is saying. Take pleasure! Live! Taste! Be in and of your senses and this moment. The food is so good, she says I start blushing. She wants to marry every man in the restaurant, especially the one who makes the pasta. After a while we stop speaking altogether and just look at each other and shake our heads. We both feel a little drunk, despite having only water to drink. This food euphoria is something new, a buzz not unlike a strong glass of wine. The pleasures of good food shared with a friend extend beyond the stomach. We are tasting joy, and in good company.
I am with my friend NE, human glitter, a poet who brims with shine and sparkle and intellect and knows how to appreciate joy and pleasure in big and small bites. We will be having dinner at Fiaschetteria Pistoia, which I will soon learn is a sliver of Tuscan culinary heaven on Christopher Street, where a man with tattoos in the window makes fresh pasta by hand, BY HAND, spinning dough into strips that will eventually become spaghetti, pappardelle, and lord knows what else. Waiting for NE in the tiny hallway next to a kitchen cordoned off by glass, I watch as another man makes slabs of veal in a pan, tossing in generous heaps of olive oil while the cast iron sizzles the meat to a light brown. Small plates of pasta, artichokes, vegetables leave the tiny kitchen window and exit into the room decorated with exposed brick painted white. A Keith Haring poster of Rome and another for Italian ice cream dot the walls. When we sit down at a tiny gray marble table, the words “Fresh Pasta is Never Al Dente Because it Was Never Dried” float above our heads.
We rip slices of bread, offered to us in a tiny brown paper bag, into a olive oil from an equally tiny ramekin. A waiter offers us wine from a selection of empty bottles, each tagged with ‘White’ and ‘Red’ like Alice’s bottles in Wonderland are with ‘Eat Me’ or ‘Drink Me.’ We don’t, instead pouring ourselves water from a repurposed bottle etched with what look like window panes.
NE is talking when the broccoli rabe arrives, its green stalks and florets dipped deliciously in olive oil, but I don’t remember what she says because I slide a chunk of it into my mouth with a sliver of pancetta and my brain stops working, the broccoli falling apart next to the crunch of the pancetta, releasing flowers and spices onto my tongue. She stops mid-sentence, eager to “have what I’m having” as When Harry Met Sally would say, and takes a bite. We look at each other, eyes wide. Wow.
We make our way through the small plate loaded with the shiny green vegetable until there’s just a little bit left.
“Have some more,” NE says.
“You have some more!” I say back, pointing a fork at her.
We both giggle and take each other’s advice. A lone floret rests on the edge of the plate when a waiter tries to remove it, but I make him pause so I can give it to NE. A smile spreads wide across her face.
Our pasta arrives in two small bowls lined with blue trim. I slide mine toward me, ribbony pappardelle made yellow by the redness of a bolognese-style ragu. I'm careful not to “chow down,” and remember to taste. The silken pasta glides next to the chunky, meaty ragu and slowly my brain begins to stop working again. I have trouble forming sentences. I try not to speak because that means more time I’m not eating. And NE is having the same experience with her Cacio e Pepe, this hand-rolled spaghetti with pecorino and black pepper that’s tangy and creamy at the same time. I taste it and eat it with all manner of impropriety, nibbling the strands of pasta from my fork one by one.
We go back to our own dishes, but NE insists. “Have some more!”
When I hear her say it this time, I realize she is not just saying to keep indulging in Cacio e Pepe. Enjoy, she is saying. Take pleasure! Live! Taste! Be in and of your senses and this moment. The food is so good, she says I start blushing. She wants to marry every man in the restaurant, especially the one who makes the pasta. After a while we stop speaking altogether and just look at each other and shake our heads. We both feel a little drunk, despite having only water to drink. This food euphoria is something new, a buzz not unlike a strong glass of wine. The pleasures of good food shared with a friend extend beyond the stomach. We are tasting joy, and in good company.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
What You Don't Get in New York
As a native South Floridian, I have never known a snowy or even cold Christmas-New Year's combo and every year I get more and more okay with that. In the winter, A1A, the beach road in Fort Lauderdale, is decorated with shells and starfish formed from Christmas lights. There's a giant penguin with a surfboard welcoming visitors to Fort Lauderdale Beach. I turn down Oakland Park Boulevard and breeze along with the windows down, blasting The Pointer
Sisters' "Jump! (For My Love)" on the radio. The ability to do this is one of the things I miss most about South Florida, but I appreciate them so much more when I'm here.
But there are other things, of course.
Driving in JS's SUV to and from the Dadeland Mall while singing "Hotline Bling" and "All I Want For Christmas is You" at the top of our lungs. Waking up in her guestroom at 6am and looking at the view of Miami. Trying to take pictures of her dog that she calls a "lap giraffe" but failing because he doesn't stop moving. Sitting on the beach with her and wearing our big sunglasses, listening to her say things like "God help me if I see another sonogram on Facebook. Congratulations, you're giving birth to a fucking squirrel."
How JL's apartment, decorated in Jim Morrison posters and Grateful Dead wall hangings, always smells vaguely of weed. How she makes her mother's fudge every Christmas, occasionally throwing in walnuts or peppermint sticks. Drinking white sangria at the utterly epic I-Pic movie theatre and eating buffalo chicken springrolls while watching Sisters. How, even after 23 years of friendship, she still remembers things I've said even when I don't remember saying them.
When my mother makes potato latkes when I am home in December even if Hanukkah has passed. How every year I try to flip them at the right time but often end up burning myself with oil, taking them out before they're done or after they've been too done. Flipping them onto paper towels to sop up the oil so my mother has a chance to eat some herself. Watching my dad crunch into the ones that are especially crispy because those are his favorites. Doing all of this at a time like Christmas, a time when in the past we might also be out for Chinese food and a movie.
Sitting at the dinner table with my family for a meal, cutting into things I can't afford to eat in New York like steak and baked potatoes and roasted brussel sprouts. Laughing at my dad's jokes, complimenting my mother's cooking, and really meaning both of those things when I do them. How my dad always leaves a cup full of the diet soda he hasn't finished on the table when he clears his place. How my mother instructs me where everything goes in the refrigerator when we're done eating.
Tending bar on New Year's Eve, leaving out my tip jar imprinted with my alma mater for guests. I will make my dad either a piña colada or a white Russian because he's not a big drinker and only likes things that taste like dessert and are topped with whipped cream. My mother will have a Cosmopolitan in what she refers to as "my glass," her oversized martini glass spun through with turquoise. "Use the Grey Goose Orange," she'll say, "and make it VERY. COLD." And champagne. Lots of champagne. Preferably Taittinger, but Veuve Cliquot or Perrier-Jouet will do, to be drunk only by she and I from the glasses from my grandmother Evelyn's set, the short ones rimmed with gold leaf. Everyone else gets regular champagne flutes.
Sitting out by the pool in my bathing suit and reading the back issues of New York Magazine I haven't gotten to yet. Coming inside when it gets too hot and lying around the house wrapped in a towel, still in my bathing suit, then going back outside later only to repeat the process all over again until it's dark outside.
Staying up way too late with my mom watching movies on Turner Classic Movies. Going out to dinner with my dad and talking about marijuana reform, his past life in the Bronx, and "whether or not I'm seeing any men."
Brunch on Sunday morning where my mother will make something a little more complicated than cereal, like French toast or Ebelskivers. Sitting there at the table in my pajamas with my parents, looking out at ponytail palm tree in the driveway my parents have nicknamed "Maxx II," after "Maxx I" was replaced a few years ago.
Trying to turn correctly out of the curved driveway but having to instead attempt it two or three times, rolling over the grass and maybe even hitting the house before I do it correctly. Not getting it right until the day before I leave, rolling my eyes at myself at how terrible a driver I am. Being proud of myself for never hitting the mailbox, chiding myself for hitting the neighbors' bushes covered in Christmas lights.
Doing my laundry in my parents' washer and dryer and not having to pay for it. Wearing clean jeans on the plane home after folding everything else neatly in my suitcase. Making my bed, or doing my best to do it, before I leave so my mother doesn't have to reach too much. Kissing my parents goodbye, saying "Bye Maw, Bye Paw," before I head into the airport and come back to New York.
But there are other things, of course.
Driving in JS's SUV to and from the Dadeland Mall while singing "Hotline Bling" and "All I Want For Christmas is You" at the top of our lungs. Waking up in her guestroom at 6am and looking at the view of Miami. Trying to take pictures of her dog that she calls a "lap giraffe" but failing because he doesn't stop moving. Sitting on the beach with her and wearing our big sunglasses, listening to her say things like "God help me if I see another sonogram on Facebook. Congratulations, you're giving birth to a fucking squirrel."
How JL's apartment, decorated in Jim Morrison posters and Grateful Dead wall hangings, always smells vaguely of weed. How she makes her mother's fudge every Christmas, occasionally throwing in walnuts or peppermint sticks. Drinking white sangria at the utterly epic I-Pic movie theatre and eating buffalo chicken springrolls while watching Sisters. How, even after 23 years of friendship, she still remembers things I've said even when I don't remember saying them.
When my mother makes potato latkes when I am home in December even if Hanukkah has passed. How every year I try to flip them at the right time but often end up burning myself with oil, taking them out before they're done or after they've been too done. Flipping them onto paper towels to sop up the oil so my mother has a chance to eat some herself. Watching my dad crunch into the ones that are especially crispy because those are his favorites. Doing all of this at a time like Christmas, a time when in the past we might also be out for Chinese food and a movie.
Sitting at the dinner table with my family for a meal, cutting into things I can't afford to eat in New York like steak and baked potatoes and roasted brussel sprouts. Laughing at my dad's jokes, complimenting my mother's cooking, and really meaning both of those things when I do them. How my dad always leaves a cup full of the diet soda he hasn't finished on the table when he clears his place. How my mother instructs me where everything goes in the refrigerator when we're done eating.
Tending bar on New Year's Eve, leaving out my tip jar imprinted with my alma mater for guests. I will make my dad either a piña colada or a white Russian because he's not a big drinker and only likes things that taste like dessert and are topped with whipped cream. My mother will have a Cosmopolitan in what she refers to as "my glass," her oversized martini glass spun through with turquoise. "Use the Grey Goose Orange," she'll say, "and make it VERY. COLD." And champagne. Lots of champagne. Preferably Taittinger, but Veuve Cliquot or Perrier-Jouet will do, to be drunk only by she and I from the glasses from my grandmother Evelyn's set, the short ones rimmed with gold leaf. Everyone else gets regular champagne flutes.
Sitting out by the pool in my bathing suit and reading the back issues of New York Magazine I haven't gotten to yet. Coming inside when it gets too hot and lying around the house wrapped in a towel, still in my bathing suit, then going back outside later only to repeat the process all over again until it's dark outside.
Staying up way too late with my mom watching movies on Turner Classic Movies. Going out to dinner with my dad and talking about marijuana reform, his past life in the Bronx, and "whether or not I'm seeing any men."
Brunch on Sunday morning where my mother will make something a little more complicated than cereal, like French toast or Ebelskivers. Sitting there at the table in my pajamas with my parents, looking out at ponytail palm tree in the driveway my parents have nicknamed "Maxx II," after "Maxx I" was replaced a few years ago.
Trying to turn correctly out of the curved driveway but having to instead attempt it two or three times, rolling over the grass and maybe even hitting the house before I do it correctly. Not getting it right until the day before I leave, rolling my eyes at myself at how terrible a driver I am. Being proud of myself for never hitting the mailbox, chiding myself for hitting the neighbors' bushes covered in Christmas lights.
Doing my laundry in my parents' washer and dryer and not having to pay for it. Wearing clean jeans on the plane home after folding everything else neatly in my suitcase. Making my bed, or doing my best to do it, before I leave so my mother doesn't have to reach too much. Kissing my parents goodbye, saying "Bye Maw, Bye Paw," before I head into the airport and come back to New York.
Saturday, April 25, 2015
My New York in Two Hours
Sometimes you have only a short time to spend with a dear friend to show them your New York (because there is no one New York experience and the city is different for everyone!), and you don't want to monopolize their time. So if you come to visit me and ask me to show you my New York in two hours, here is one sampling of what we might do together--and feel free to use this brief (yet lovely, in my humble opinion) travelogue for yourself!
Meet at...
Staley-Wise Gallery
560 Broadway at Prince Street, #305
20 Minutes
Price Range: Free!
The Staley-Wise Gallery is one of my favorite galleries in New York. It has a focus in fine art fashion photography, with the likes of legends Herb Ritts, Horst P. Horst, David LaChapelle and infinite others in their collection. There's currently a fabulous show on featuring images from the archive of Bert Stern, the photographer who did the legendary last sitting with Marilyn Monroe. I had the pleasure once of meeting Mr. Stern before he passed away, and you can read about that here. The gallery is beautifully curated and small but specialized, making it perfect for your mini-intro to my New York.
Walk 6 minutes to...
Brunch/Lunch:
Lovely Day
196 Elizabeth Street between Prince Street and Spring Street
45 Minutes
Price Range: $9.50-$17
I found Lovely Day by accident while out for a walk one day with EH. We were going to try another joint, but there was a line out the door and no place to sit! I couldn't have been happier that this happened though after our meal at Lovely Day. The restaurant serves foods that infuse Thai cooking into a variety of international comfort foods, resulting in things like an egg white fritatta with shiitake mushrooms or buttermilk pancakes with lime palm sugar syrup for brunch. The space is small, with shabby-chic floral wallpaper, a lunch counter with red barstools, and red booths. The staff is friendly and when you ask if the man who was sitting next to you was Thurston Moore from Sonic Youth, they'll say no, that wasn't him, but he does come here a lot and he did look like him, though. Lovely Day is an unpretentious neighborhood staple serving delicious, inexpensive, and unique dishes. I can't wait to take you there!
Walk 6 minutes to...
Think Coffee
1 Bleecker Street at Bowery
5 Minutes
We're just stopping to grab a coffee/tea at this branch of thoughtful, social and environmentally responsible, independently owned coffee franchise Think Coffee. I chose this branch because I will want to show you where legendary punk club CBGB-OMFUG used to be, right across the street at 315 Bowery. It's now a John Varvatos store but the location is important to be because the DIY, fuck-you spirit of the CBGB scene is one of the reasons I moved to New York.
Walk 13 minutes to...
101 Astor Place
25 Minutes
There's nothing really special at this location besides the fact that it's a new plaza with lots of seating and great people watching. We'll sit and stare at the folks leaving St. Mark's. On the way here, I'll tell you about Cooper Union and the Village Voice office, about the horrible yuppy bars and what the East Village used to be like in the 1970s. Then we'll sit and talk and catch up and drink our coffee and/or tea. Shortly you'll have to leave--the 6 train is close by, and so is the N and the R, so you can get to the east or west sides of town with no problem. But it will have been so lovely to spend even two hours with you and share part of the city I love so much, and thereby part of myself, with you. Maybe next time you come back we'll be able to see each other for more time, but even if you don't I promise to have something just as lovely planned for you then, too! I'm always happy to see you, even if for a short while. Have a safe trip home!
Meet at...
Staley-Wise Gallery
560 Broadway at Prince Street, #305
20 Minutes
Price Range: Free!
The Staley-Wise Gallery is one of my favorite galleries in New York. It has a focus in fine art fashion photography, with the likes of legends Herb Ritts, Horst P. Horst, David LaChapelle and infinite others in their collection. There's currently a fabulous show on featuring images from the archive of Bert Stern, the photographer who did the legendary last sitting with Marilyn Monroe. I had the pleasure once of meeting Mr. Stern before he passed away, and you can read about that here. The gallery is beautifully curated and small but specialized, making it perfect for your mini-intro to my New York.
Walk 6 minutes to...
Brunch/Lunch:
Lovely Day
196 Elizabeth Street between Prince Street and Spring Street
45 Minutes
Price Range: $9.50-$17
I found Lovely Day by accident while out for a walk one day with EH. We were going to try another joint, but there was a line out the door and no place to sit! I couldn't have been happier that this happened though after our meal at Lovely Day. The restaurant serves foods that infuse Thai cooking into a variety of international comfort foods, resulting in things like an egg white fritatta with shiitake mushrooms or buttermilk pancakes with lime palm sugar syrup for brunch. The space is small, with shabby-chic floral wallpaper, a lunch counter with red barstools, and red booths. The staff is friendly and when you ask if the man who was sitting next to you was Thurston Moore from Sonic Youth, they'll say no, that wasn't him, but he does come here a lot and he did look like him, though. Lovely Day is an unpretentious neighborhood staple serving delicious, inexpensive, and unique dishes. I can't wait to take you there!
Walk 6 minutes to...
Think Coffee
1 Bleecker Street at Bowery
5 Minutes
We're just stopping to grab a coffee/tea at this branch of thoughtful, social and environmentally responsible, independently owned coffee franchise Think Coffee. I chose this branch because I will want to show you where legendary punk club CBGB-OMFUG used to be, right across the street at 315 Bowery. It's now a John Varvatos store but the location is important to be because the DIY, fuck-you spirit of the CBGB scene is one of the reasons I moved to New York.
Walk 13 minutes to...
101 Astor Place
25 Minutes
There's nothing really special at this location besides the fact that it's a new plaza with lots of seating and great people watching. We'll sit and stare at the folks leaving St. Mark's. On the way here, I'll tell you about Cooper Union and the Village Voice office, about the horrible yuppy bars and what the East Village used to be like in the 1970s. Then we'll sit and talk and catch up and drink our coffee and/or tea. Shortly you'll have to leave--the 6 train is close by, and so is the N and the R, so you can get to the east or west sides of town with no problem. But it will have been so lovely to spend even two hours with you and share part of the city I love so much, and thereby part of myself, with you. Maybe next time you come back we'll be able to see each other for more time, but even if you don't I promise to have something just as lovely planned for you then, too! I'm always happy to see you, even if for a short while. Have a safe trip home!
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