“You haven’t been blogging lately,” my friend observes. We’re in a coffee shop near the Google building; I’ve given up on American espresso and am instead drinking something with a foam heart.
“No time; I’m writing too much.”
It’s partly true. The anecdotes of my past year—the journey, the harvest, the points between—have begun oozing their way onto the pages of what will become my second book. But it’s more accurate to say I haven’t been blogging because I’m not doing anything life-threatening or insane—because I’m back where I speak the language, know the culture, and am used to the sights, though now they be blanketed in white.
Tonight, if they’ve wiped what’s left of Jonas off the runway, I fly back to France. This weekend brought the winter I wanted—the sort of winter Helprin wrote about—a winter to redeem winters. And I’m grateful for all that is redemptive in this storm—dogs bounding through the blizzard, snow ball fights in Central Park, strong drinks shut up with friends old and new.
There is a comfort that comes from the city of my birth; a power in returning to it. It will be hard to leave this place. I always do.
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