I’m back, mylittlechicks.
Of course you can imagine that I don’t really know what time it is or if I need to sleep or not. Because I had an exhausted trip with connectiong flight in Madrid and my first plane left JFK in late. In Madrid I had to run to go to the right terminal.
As I was saying there, Dream vacations, really. Just because I felt good and free there. Very far from what it is so heavy in my “real life” here in Paris. In NYC, eyes look at the sky. And travelling means adventures.
I got back many things for you, especially photos, to try to show you new york way of life. Well, What I felt about it, actually. I have to file all this and I’ll show it in few days.
Now, I give you what I wrote in the plane, last night.
Be cool, I was tired and the lady seted next to me put her denture in and off every ten minutes !!
Wrote in the plane somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean, 9th of August night :
“There were these square designed grey concrete sidewalks. There were these blocks walked in, uptown, midtown. These avenues crossed always in the same order : Fifth Ave, the most beautiful, Ave of the Americas, Seventh Ave. There was the Empire State building with “cartoon motion cars” below. There were heat, humidity, sun, chilly air conditioning. And a cool breeze. And the Booklyn bridge.
There were these worldwide faces. Sure to be in the right place in the right time. These foreign languages, everywhere, mixed in each corner of each block.
There was the city, huge meeting place of the whole world.
We walk, we walk until our feet are hurt. We want to see everything, breathe every detail. We don’t want to miss the thing which makes us more than tourists.
We’re not really only tourists anymore. We’re home. Everybody is probably home sooner or later, in this city which gives chance to everyone.
We don’t dream about America : we ARE in America.
Buildings seem already less tall but they always have their own majesty.
We already have our favorite places and habits.
There isn’t something we don’t like yet. Except these people who speak so loudly in the restaurants. And these american “dolls”. Speaking loudly too and smiling all the time.
They’re good looking, slim and they wear shorts.
We’re told American people don’t really talk, they only chat. Everything is always sooooo “GREEEEAAAT”, “AMAAAAZING” or “TERRRRIFIC”. But we’re told there is nothing behind words.
They don’t always talk about the world, they don’t do “world’s makeovers” as French people do. Their government takes care of that for them. Not always with the best taste.
New Yorkers are polite and do sport. Not bad anyway.
I saw thousands of “monamericains” in New York City streets. Same look, maybe. Each time I feel plenty of tenderness. Once or twice I believe he’s in front of me. He’s not. Monamericain doesn’t go to NYC in August : too much farenheits and humidity.
I observe men in the streets, without any guilt. They are cute, most of the time. More than in Paris.
I say that because I’m in a plane, somewhere in the sky between New York City and Paris. And because this plane is bringing me back home.
The air hostess, eyes over blue made up, sees my Abercrombie t.shirt and says she likes this store very much. Me too. She offers me drink. And “chicken or beef ?”. Chicken.
I read “Hell” (Lolita Pille – French writer).
There I also felt like home. I was seriously wondering if I’d be able to live in the city when I was there. I mean, not like something you can talk about but like something you can really think about. I really that, except my family, I wouldn’t leave a lot of important things in my Paris’s everyday life. I feel weird when I realize that.
But this is an illusion. A “sky” illusion : there I could love someone and beloved by someone. That’s not true.
Life is hard there : work, competition, money, no vacation, no health insurance, 5 women for 1 man, wedding obsession...
But I was thinking of it.
At home, everything is always too small.
But this is only because of my eyes.”
I’m home now.
And I feel lucky.