Friday was my day to get things done.  Tooling around in my CRV, I opened the sunroof and blasted the XM.  I hit Super Target, Total Wine (oh…my…heaven), and Barnes and Noble.  I had been eyeing Rick Steves’ guide to Paris for weeks but refused to buy it at its New York price.  Looking at it on the shelf, checking out its more reasonable Atlanta price, I still wondered if I should get it.  I mean, the pictures were sparse–and in black and white.  And there were a lot of words!  In short, it looked pretty boring.  I felt the call of the chick-lit section then wondered if Stieg Larsson’s latest had come out.  The tour tome still in my hand, I decided to be a big girl and take some responsibility for learning about the city I was about to visit.  I’ve always depended on other people for that, which is why I walked away from Italy learning that Siena is very old and…um…wine.  There was wine.  I took the book to the counter and paid for it, even picking up a Barnes and Noble membership in the process and striking up a lovely conversation with the cashier about Paris.  The last time I struck up a conversation with a bookstore cashier was at Borders on 30th and 2nd in the city, where the dude asked if I was writing a nonfiction book (I was purchasing How to Sell Your Nonfiction Book) and learned that he was, as well.  On Korean cinema.  Niche! I thought.  Doubt I’ll hear anyone around these parts say that, which I am totally fine with.

So I headed home to unload a trunk full of wine and food, and my trusty guide.  A few minutes later, I was sitting on the couch waiting for the BF to get home so we could hit Brio.  Wondering what to do with myself for the next half hour (I had already reached my limit for the day of checking email and Facebook), I grudgingly grabbed Rick Steves and opened the pages like a kid doing her homework.  I breezed through the section on what to bring until I reached the part where he told me that to travel in Europe, my passport would need to be good for another four to six months.  Lame, I thought, what’s the point of the expiration date if it expires months before that? Then, another thought:  Where is my passport? I pictured various spots in my mind, all of which were located in New York apartments.  I ran to the bathroom, checking cabinets.  Damn all this space! I ran to the other bathroom, checking those cabinets.  I checked my underwear drawer, where I used to keep it and actually turns out to be a good place for it.  Except it wasn’t there.  On the verge of tears, I re-checked the bathroom drawer I had just visited and found it.  Sigh of relief.  Then:  Wait…when does it expire? I opened the cover and, in slow motion, followed the type to the expiration date. February 14, 2010. NOOOOOO!!!!!!

The next few minutes were adrenaline-pumped and tear-stained.  I alternately ran Google searches on expedited passports, cried, asked God why, ran more searches, called some leads, found out how much I would be paying for this mistake, and cried again. When the BF got back, I told him what happened.  He smiled non-mockingly at my tears and got the rundown from me: the soonest I could get a new passport would be Wednesday.  We were flying out Tuesday.  He called British Airways and, as I sniffled in the fetal position a few feet away, postponed our flight one day.  I called the nearest passport expediting company and booked an appointment for the next day.  It should go without saying, but I’ll say it anyway: at no point during this debacle did the BF look at me like I was as stupid as I felt, nor did he once use any pronoun other than we.  I messed up, but it was fixable, and I had help.  Good thing one of us is rational.

Of course, he and the Sis both made the point later that it was a blessing I had checked my passport when I did, rather than finding out at the airport that I would not, in fact, be going to Europe this week.  Oh yeah…silver linings and such, I thought.  I tend to forget about those until someone on my team reminds me.  Back when my plans used to get frustrated at every turn (because they were terrible plans), I would wonder why God picked on me so much.  Now, as I prepare to board a flight with the BF and spend a week with him in England and Paris, I can see what He kept me from–and saved me for.

It figures.  It figures that the first pangs of missing New York would hit me over food.  The BF and I were graciously gifted with dinner at the local tapas place in our new neighborhood–his brother and sister-in-law (how do I refer to them?  I’m going with BIL and SIL, because you can never have too many initials as identification in one post) gave us a certificate for Eclipse di Luna, knowing our affinity for all plates small and multiple.  We went with the Sis and Bro-in-Law, my side of the family (whew…family-combining is complicated!  Note to self: figure out a handy title for everyone soon, or have them sign waivers so I can use their real names).  We spent the evening over a table full of wine and tiny dishes.  Not bad for a Saturday night.

The night before, the BF and I had walked down the street for dinner at Brio, my favorite Italian chain.  We sat outside under an awning and watched the rain intermittently patter onto the lake in front of us. A lone duck waddled around the patio, refusing to leave because of the kids (since when are they allowed in restaurants?  Since we left New York) who kept throwing bread in his direction.  Ugh…I thought, kids AND ducks…but by the end of the meal, I was digging into the bread basket our waitress brought and lobbing hunks over the railing to the birds floating below.  If you can’t beat ’em…

Saturday afternoon, the BF and I hosted friends and family to our resort-style pool, where we were again greeted with intermittent rain that was no match for our umbrella.  These late-afternoon Southern thunderstorms, with their 40% chances reflected on www.weather.com daily, have been a stranger to me for five years.  I’ve forgotten how quickly they come and go, how the sky can drip even while the sun is shining brightly.  There are a few things I’ve forgotten, in fact.  The mosquitoes that gnaw on every inch of available bare skin, turning my legs into a red-and-white constellation and leaving me with spots to scratch for days….the blasting air conditioners, central of course, that take me from sweat-drenched to icy-cold in seconds…the red-state patriotism evident everywhere from bumper stickers to church services.

All of these things used to be my normal.  Now I find they take some re-getting used to.

For the late-afternoon drenchings, I find that sitting by a pool helps, as does a new car with good windshield wipers.  For the mosquito bites, there is Off spray or the handy tabletop diffuser that the SIL wisely brought to the cookout.  For the heat and A/C combo I have a big purse with room for both a water bottle and a sweater.  For the red-state patriotism I have my own brand of conservatism, which started out blindingly red itself but has since been tempered with the idea of social justice and the discovery that Jesus was not, in fact, a member of the NRA or Republican party.  (Nor was he a Democrat, so suck it.)

But as for the tapas…I have a feeling we are never going to find our Alta or Sala or Stanton Social here in the ATL.  The realization of that hit me with more power than the disappointment of finding undercooked bacon on my small plate.  “That” being bigger than a restaurant…”That” being all that I’ll miss and sometimes even pine for post-relocation.  And what is “that” exactly?, I asked myself as I took a second to reflect in the bathroom.

So much of my New York experience was tied to being a part of something, and the identity that inclusion gave me.  I had no idea when I moved there what a living, breathing organism New York City would turn out to be.  Or what a premium I would place on my life being tied to it.  I took a second in the stall to breathe, pray, think, and, as so often happens when I am alone, have a conversation with myself.

What’s going on here?  I miss New York.  Finally.

How much missing are we talking about?  Well, my breathing’s not so hot, my eyes are soggy, and my heart hurts.

What is it that you miss most?  Friends…people…no, that’s BS.  I miss feeling connected to the most badass city in the country and how good it made me feel about myself.

Do you have validity as a person apart from living in New York (this might have been my psychology major speaking up):  Yes.

Are the most important things about you still going to be true whether you are in an apartment in Manhattan or by a pool in Dunwoody?  Yes.

Are you allowed to miss the city without feeling the need to grieve it hopelessly, knowing that just like your life five years ago was bigger than Alabama, now it’s also bigger than New York?  (…Is that you, God?  Um…YES.)

I gave myself permission to be forever divided, gloriously conflicted, simultaneously homeless and at home.  Then I walked out of the stall and into the bathroom that was bigger than my old apartment.  I took a deep breath, smiled, and headed back to a table full of mediocre tapas and remarkable family.