Virgin America flight 412. I’m on my way from LA to NY, five days “sans famille”. The first vacation in 15 years without my husband and child. I have packed accordingly; sequins and stiletto boots that haven’t seen the light of day since the 80’s. My bff is in the seat beside me, and we’re on our third cocktail.
Touching the ground at JFK, I feel it all coming back. My hometown long ago forsaken for eternal sunshine and the white picket fence, dogs and SUV included. The lights of the city welcome us on this rainy October night. It’s 11:00 at night, and I’m wired.
There are beautiful boys on the street. Not California beautiful, but New York sexy. Hot and electric, rough around the edges. Twenty years slip away as I fall into the rhythm of the city. My accent is back, and so is my light.
We have no responsibilities on this trip, no one to tend to. Night and day are interchangeable. We stay out until 5 in the morning, and eat lunch at 4 in the afternoon. I’m wearing mini skirts and 6-inch Louboutin pumps, knee-high boots and glitter. Steven Tyler smiles at me in the hotel elevator. We have a drink with Jackson Browne.
The Concierge is a bad boy. He rolls joints for me, and we smoke outside a bar next door to the hotel. He walks like a mobster/runway model, and talks like David Caruso. He smells really good. He is 6′2 and blonde, beautiful. I am old enough to be his mother.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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