When out-of-town friends and relatives ask me when I’m coming to see them, the answer is always the same: “Yeah, for sure. Uh... let me check my calendar.”
When I moved to NYC, I disabused myself of any notions of high luxury, electing a life lived underground with MTA mole people and, aboveground, in an overpriced, under-heated Bushwick cell. But that’s a fair price to pay when you’re in the undeniable center of the galaxy.
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So, it is always a shock when a friend mentions, at our 10-year high school reunion, that I should drop by “if I’m ever in western Massachusetts.” Doesn’t living the dream exempt me from schlepping on a Megabus to see you?
You have a guest room and central air. Let me have my delusions of big-city superiority. I’ll wear outrageous clothes to outrageous parties and not worry about my dematerializing credit.
Besides, can’t you come here? You can see the world-renowned theater, drag, comedy, culinary and fashion scenes that are just around the corner from me but just out of my price range.
That said, it’s likely that when you pay a call, I’ll be out of town. What? I wouldn’t lie to you!
