To Here

I have never considered myself to be a "New Yorker". So I lived there for some time, sure, but it always seemed silly to call myself a "NYer", especially in the face of people who were born there or people with families who are several generations deep. You wouldn't move to another Continent for a few years and start referring to yourself as a St. Petersburger or a Budapestian. That isn't to say I hadn't developed an affection for NY. New York is, well, I won't attempt to describe or classify my particular feelings for The City -- such a task has been done at length (and BETTER than I ever could) by many others. New York is New York. There.

I was happy there, but I never felt particularly troubled or pained to leave the City: some things I would miss, some not, and it would always be there when I got back. So it goes: you leave, you come back. Any of our fellow Gypsies will tell you, you go where the work is, you know? You come and you go for work. I'd done this many times, and it was always just fine.

Much to my surprise, when I was finally offered this extraordinary opportunity (that I had always been secretly hoping for), I found myself a bit reluctant. Leave NY? After 7 lean-ish years, I wasn't sure I was going to get to start with 7 fat years in another state, you know what I mean? Suddenly, Cab and Car honking didn't bother me, Subway commutes were a dream, my Pineapple Fried Rice from 49th and 9th was tastier, my Caporal Fried Chicken Crunchier, the days were brighter, the ladies more beautiful, what a wonderful WONDERFUL PLACE! Could I abandon my windy perch by the GW Bridge with panoramic views of the Hudson? Could I really leave all this for something I had always wanted? It seemed that the roots I never thought were there had seemingly taken hold. Of course, that's a bunch of hoo-ha. I just wasn't thinking.

Fortunately, two particular someones would abate my foolishness.

First, a close friend, a wonderful human I wouldn't mind calling my sister, left NY. It isn't her LEAVING that is interesting, it's the WHY she left. She is one of the best teachers I have had about what is truly Important in life. She was fine example of practicing what you preach. She had always proved her point grandly and boldly (and this was no exception): She had always wanted to have Paris as her home, and to be as fluent as a native speaker. She took a loan from the bank, sold her stuff, and blew town. As of this writing she is in her second term at the Sorbonne.

If that wasn't a bold enough, you know, MESSAGE or example or whatever, there was another incidental intervention -- from one (of a few) of my "Parents"-- (There are people in our lives who care deeply for us, and who know us better than we know ourselves. This is what I am refering to). As distant as I feel from the dummy I once was, sometimes, occasionally, Tom-Foolery resurfaces in our lives. B. Pearson helped me see the answer that he knew I knew (but I didn't know) that was right in front of my face. Follow? Here-- After a long walk that ended in Madison Square Park, and over burgers with a satisfying Cheese to Grease Ratio, B. Pearson (with diligent, fatherly patience) led me down the path to the answer that was in my innards -- in my heart, I mean. He helped me through all the extraneous baloney stuff and REALLY, TRULY answer the question "What do you want?" (Also, this simple question is the Key to any Acting anyone ever has done or will do). I had seen the light -- Finally. I had purpose now, and felt pulled to VA for 1st Stage. It all worked out.

Not long after, I went through my phone and invited everyone I could for a Fundraiser for what would be my last show (for the time being) in New York. The show turned out handsomely but closed as favorable reviews were surfacing. After the last performance, I had a nice quiet coffee with the best Blondie I've ever known. In the morning, by myself, I got a truck, loaded it, and made my way to the Bridge to Jersey. Now, this will sound stupid and syrupy and ridiculous, but I'm telling you it's the gods freakin honest truth: Pavarotti had passed the day before, and, as I crossed the span of the Upper Deck of the GW Bridge, I clicked the radio onto NPR. As I got my last look at NY, Pavarotti's 'Nessun Dorma' faded up as they closed the segment of "All Things Considered". The music swelled to it's moving finish as I crossed the Hudson and onto the Turnpike...to Here. To 1st Stage.

Wretch, Gag, Vomit, Lifetime-Original-Movie-Fodder though it may be, it happened. And, at the time, it was nice. I promise.