It’s only August and I’m on my 20th flight to NYC. The transition to “New York speed” now happens between the gate and the Uber. I’m recognized at the front desk of my super-dope LES hotel. I’ve made the required reparations for my locals who were a little bent when they found out I’d been coming here for a few months without connecting. I’m in the City regularly enough that sometimes I don’t see anyone, because it’s not really an event anymore. Only about six flights were in-and-out in the same day. I’ve seen “Dear Evan Hansen” twice (the penalty of leaving it up to your friend), Hamilton from the second row, a long list of shows at Arlene’s Grocery and the Merury Lounge and enough fajitas at El Sombrero that my Spanish hassignificantly improved.
It is invigorating, but it also definitely feels like I’m living two existences – waking up in Arizona seems so “small”.