Paul and I were married six years ago today. Sometimes it feels much, much longer.
Just kidding! But not really.
In any case, this means that six years ago tomorrow was the start of my first vacation to New York City.
In high school, I'd been to New York for just a few hours as a day trip from Philadelphia -- enough time to visit the Statue of Liberty and take a quick bus tour through Manhattan. But I'd never stepped foot on Broadway until our honeymoon.
The city didn't greet me with its best foot forward. It was pouring rain every day but the last. Our tiny hotel room was something like 20 stories up, but the traffic sounded like it was 20 feet away. At the end of the week I specifically remember thinking that New York was a nice place to visit, but I didn't think I'd ever want to live here.
That feeling obviously went away.
Whenever there's a big airplane crash, for a few days I always think that I'm never going to fly again. But then it gradually fades from memory and I start planning my next vacation.
That's New York to me. The highs are so high, it's not long before you forget about the few-and-far-between lows. It wasn't long before I forgot about the rain and traffic and remembered only the lights, the museums, the bustle. And besides, how many people can say they live in the city where they honeymooned?
(As an aside, there's still hope for my parents, who visited the brand-new Walt Disney World after their wedding 31 years ago. The family joke is that Dad's going to become a Disney bus driver after he retires. And they'd probably get at least a few more visits from me each year if he could score me free tickets to the Magic Kingdom.)
I hadn't returned to New York until Paul interviewed for his current job, and we found our apartment in a whirlwind 10 hours just about two years ago exactly.
There are times when New York City still seems romantic: in the summer, late at night, when you least expect it. But now it's mostly just a place to live. And I'm fine with that.