She boards a plane

I packed my favorite black suitcase, kissed the good, good man that is my husband, waved goodbye to my daughter, and headed into the Jacksonville airport. I squealed a little under my breath. "Bon Voyage" and "Happy Birthday to me" kept going through my head. I went through security, was stopped and subsequently searched, the illegal bottles of shampoo and conditioner swiftly confiscated. I shrugged and walked off knowing that on any other day the scenario would annoy me. But not today. This weekend is about celebrating.

I sat in the terminal, pulled out my laptop, drank my iced americano, and read emails through my intermittent people watching. I had no tiny hands to corale, no one else to discuss the plan with. Just me. I emailed Matt and told him how immensely I was enjoying myself though I hadn't even left the airport. He later told me he envisioned me having kicked my shoes off. Let me tell you, it came pretty close to that.

I boarded the plane headed for NYC with a layover in DC. The first flight was uneventful. Had a chance to organize my photos...a job I always think about doing but can never find suitable time to do such a laborious but necessary task.

We flew over the Pentagon, and I marveled at how small it was considering it's national significance. I guess I always imagined it being much grander. Maybe my perspective was off because I was flying above it. The layover was short, and then we boarded the second plane. I accidentally jammed my knee in the rear of the girl sitting next to me as she tried to squeeze past me. That was awkward. We both laughed it off. Thank goodness planes are an instance where typical space rules don't apply, otherwise that offense might have qualified as physical assault.

I landed in New York without incident. I was greeted with taxis, swiftly walking people, a rainbow of shades of black clothing, and city energy. Yes, I love this. Yes. Yes. Yes.

This trip is a generous gift from my older brother. Known as "Uncle City" to his nieces, too me, he's my successful, New York-wise brother...who knows how to give a good birthday present.

We didn't waist any time getting the city fun started. First off was a trip to a Russian bar for oysters on the half shell, a fig martini, and a lychee cucumber martini. I have never had raw oysters. Let me here announce: I LOVE RAW OYSTERS! I'll admit, I never thought they could be so good. I imagined they wouldn't have any taste since they were raw. Turns out, they have all the amazing oyster flavor of the cooked variety but with a delicious raw texture, complimented beautifully by shallot vinegar and horseradish sauce. (Sigh)

From there we made our way to a Pan-Asian restaurant and ate salt and pepper shrimp, shrimp dumplings, and seafood tossed with Cantonese noodles. During our time at both places, we had fun pulling out the Nikon and taking pictures of the low lighting and urban atmosphere. This might be everyday for Andrew, but it's a lifetime of inspiration for me.

In good city fashion, we strolled around after dinner, walking swiftly, block by block, avoiding aggressive drivers and sketchy people. We settled in Little Italy at an outdoor cafe and partook of "the best cannoli on the planet" and espresso. The cannoli didn't live up to the hype, but the people-watching was primo.

Three restaurants were enough for me, and I expressed interest in heading back to his apartment. It was, afterall, midnight, and this homebody had reached her limit for the night. We hopped in his car and headed to his home in Brooklyn, where he checked in to see if I wanted to go to one of his favorite night spots in his neighborhood. I was flattered that he thought I might have that kind of energy, but I said I'd rather head in to bed. I had, afterall, been struggling with insomnia all week and had a date lined up with Ambien.

(She sleeps!)

I heart Ambien. Really and truly. There is nothing like sleep to rejuvenate. In fact, I might go take a nap right now. Andrew is taking me out for French food tonight to celebrate my birthday. I need all the energy I can muster for French cuisine.

My cup runneth over.