We will be dating 2 months

me and this bohemian cocoon.

Another temporary liaison

Until the next train chugs by

another person

another job

another home and half-hour episode

just gypsying through

until they naturally expire

Despite the longing

for forever

when the party is raging

it’s so good

don’t want it to end

but that’s always the best time

to get out

before it gets sloppy

When I first arrived into the bitter cold and snow-covered everything, I thought I was serving a prison term for incurring too much credit card debt. The fact that my “cell” has a jacuzzi tub and a George Foreman grill made it more like a white collar prison, but being completely isolated from my friends and family was enough to make me feel imprisoned.

And then for a while I decided this stint was an “artist’s retreat.” With no distractions, perhaps I could finally focus on my artwork (the Comic Books). But the mind, in and of itself, can be a prison cell. All I could think about was what everyone else was doing…all the fun they were having while I was cold and alone. How pathetic.

Perhaps watching the kites catching the chill March wind around the Washington Monument made me realize I am Mary Poppins, flying from place-to-place, enjoying the people and the events in present-time, not becoming attached to anything or anyone. Life is just the same. We check in one day; travel around and learn as much as we can; and then check out.

So, if I am to treat this stint here in Washington, DC, as a vacation, I should do as many tourist things as possible and plan day/weekend trips to the surrounding areas.

I already did the Virginia vineyards; the Kite Festival, next weekend I’ll check out the Cherry Blossom Festival and cook Easter dinner for Lavonne and Sylvia? Or Lavonne and I will go to Silvia’s sister’s house?

This clarity is coming after a month of being here. I arrived, knowing I was supposed to come here, but not really sure why. It’s to get away from MyAmi. To fill up on a new story. A new perspective.

In my fourth week of work, I am already thinking of how I will make myself virtual. All I did today was post a Twitter and Facebook status about a conference coming up. I will be solely responsible for creating a content strategy for my client. I will not have to be in the office for this job just like our social media consultants in Colorado and our conference manager in Delaware.

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I referred to my first two weeks in Washington, DC as the “Honeymoon.”

I had my first fight about money with my new husband (aka, new job) and I had to acquiesce to his (aka, co-workers’) judgment.

What a pill to swallow.

Like a yuppie wife, I spent the weekend trying to find ways to keep myself occupied during the downtime in our relationship - yoga, cooking with my new kitchenware (which includes a George Foreman grill!).

It sounds eerily like marriage. But a gypsy does not marry. She has love affairs with cities.

So don’t get too comfy, Washington. You’re just another lover to me.

I got hos…in different area codes…

When you are in your 30s, superficiality kicks in and suddenly creature comforts become MUST HAVEs.

I can’t stop thinking about that brand new studio I saw last week in Adam’s Morgan. It had my name written all over it!!

So I’ve been coming up with a scheme.

One of the many features of this posh new residence is a beautiful yoga studio.

And I am a yoga teacher.

I am wondering if they would slash the price of the apartment I liked on the 6th floor if I teach a couple of classes a week.

Would this be too overwhelming for me?

Nah. I can totally swing this. Thursday nights and Sunday mornings. If I teach one class a week, maybe I can get them down to $1,500. If I teach two classes/week, I can try to get them down to $1,200. This would be SWEET! The deposit is very low - $550, and this includes a credit check. And, since they have a move-in special where I get $750 off rent, the total move-in costs would be anywhere from $1,000-$1,300. I can shoot for $1,000 since my new employers promised to pay me that much for relocation. This means I would have to stay in DC for at least a year.

Hmmm. What would this mean regarding grad school? I suppose I could just pay the money back since I will have it by then.

Wow. This is kinda fun.

After crunching some more numbers, it wouldn’t make sense for me at this point to commit myself to a year lease. And now that I have two places to look at on Monday on S Street in Adam’s Morgan for less than $1,000 per month, my prospects seem broader now. I figure I can do a month-to-month arrangement with roommates, and then once my debt is paid, and I know whether or not I got into grad school, I can move into the fancy schmancy place.

This is so much fun! I love that I actually have income again and doors are opening like crazy. As long as I keep my attitude positive everything seems manageable and not so dramatic. Ahhh. Relief.

Two weeks later…
The day flew by and before I knew it I was taking the red metro to the green and up to S Street where I knew for sure I would find the apartment that would not only fit my budget but would shorten my commute to a short train ride and perhaps even a walk once the weather turns better.

But as I emerged from the Shaw-Howard U escalator, I knew instantly that this $925 room, in a house with two other women, would not be my new home. It was the ghetto. There’s no way I am going to leave the ghetto of my condo for another ghetto of DC after getting a good-paying job. I mean, what’s the point of working if you have to live in a crap neighborhood?

The inside of the 1898 house was cozy enough. Patti, the owner, greeted me at the door while her son, Lucas, grabbed items out of her pocketbook.

Soothing walls in mint greens and light mauves connected exposed brick in the front living room leading back to a refurbished kitchen with brand new light wood cabinets, oversized stainless steel refrigerator and gas stove. It would be a cozy place to cook and maybe serve people on the back patio, which looked bleak in the March winter cold.

We headed up the narrow stairs and the room that would be mine was at the very top. It’s small just like I prefer a bedroom that would just accommodate tiny me.

The closet is small and my few clothes would fit fine.

The bathroom I would share with a lawyer who is out of the country right now is large enough to fit an old style bathtub, perfect for an urban mermaid, AND a standing shower, good for a Femmebooty. So convenient.

It is nice, but I am not meeting the roommates, I will continue feeling like a student and this neighborhood is depressing.

But Patti is really nice and interesting and perhaps I am here to meet her and become friends with her. I will email her the photos I took of her place and my thoughts as an offering of friendship.

I call Robert, who is renting a 2-bedroom “luxury” condo in Adam’s Morgan, just one more metro stop north, off U Street.

Aha. This is where I was 2 weeks ago. The 2 studios were in this exact neighborhood. Fate/destiny keeps pulling me in this direction…or is it my ego? Well, I have been responding to Craigslist ads for a month now and none have responded until this past weekend. I tried sending from different email accounts to test which were more responsive, and apparently my music account was the winner.

Robert was more than happy to wait for me when I called him from S Street.

I got off at U and walked up 14th, past busboys and poets, the organic food market, a CVS, an Ethiopian Restaurant.

I meet eyes with a young black woman for longer than is appropriate - total stink eye attitude and I am surprised that I feel no fear. I turn the corner down Clifton Street and walk up a hill past buildings that have been gentrified.

Across the street is an urban residence a professional web manager can call home.

I call Robert and it takes a few minutes for him to come to the door. He is a light skinned black man with designer wire frame glasses and a shirt that is definitely NOT from Goodwill. He is a bachelor with Planet MyAmi style.

We walk down a hallway with art deco lighting. This must be the design du jour, I keep seeing it everywhere.

I expect to go up an elevator or stairs but instead we go down. Ugh. Basement? Hmmm.

Robert opens the door I see red. Red Chakra Safety Home Roots. The wall in the living room is red. The kitchen is fully stocked with good dishes and microwave and a red plastic voodoo man for a knife holder. Three stools afront  the kitchen counter where three lights hang. Just like the first studio I saw. Bells and whistles galore, except this place is newer, nicer and cheaper than the studio.

“What are the terms of the lease?” I ask before he has had a chance to give me a tour.

$1250 deposit + first month’s rent + $25 application fee.

“Well, I guess I should look at the place before asking these questions!”

He takes me thru the hallway where there is a stackable washer and dryer -check. The bathroom has a tub with jacuzzi jets - check.

The bedroom has a full sized (maybe queen) bed with nightstands and lights. The closet has shelves. I won’t get much light here but I am at work most of the week. Check.

The other bedroom has a bathroom in it, but it is too masculine for my tastes. And I’m still thinking about the urban mermaid bathtub.

There is a private outdoor patio that is much lovlier than the last house. The furniture is straight from Planet MyAmi - cheesy and yet, it seems perfect for a Femmebot. I can imagine this character developing in these surroundings, absorbing the energy of Robert, an IT guy who was living large like Stefano and his crew before he got laid off. He mentioned a previous “housemate” but I know he is talking about an ex-girlfriend by the way he stutters.

But later he tells me that he found 100 available jobs on Khaki (I guess this is a job listings web site) but all of them require “clearance.” he explains that federal jobs require this and you can only get it with a sponsor (a company), and his background is spotty because his ex-wife is Eastern European and all his Passport stamps look suspicious.

I think of all the video cameras he pointed out in the hallways and I feel a little creepy - perhaps this is a cybervideo networked apartment and he will spy on me as I take my jacuzzi baths like Sharon Stone in Sliver.

Is this a porn guy? Was his Eastern European wife a porn chic?

“I need to find someone soon so I am open to negotiating,” he tells me.

“What does that mean?”

“I could throw in gas and Cable into the rent.”

It’s a sweet deal compared to what I have seen so far. I was open to paying $1800 for a brand new studio just around the corner. With no furniture and no help paying utilities. But here is a place that is furnished and I could choose the roommate who lives with me.

But is this guy for real? Is he hiding anything?

Next Day…
I have been awake since 4:30am thinking about the Femmebot pad. I thought of the questions I should ask Robert to make it a legitimate transaction in my mind. No need to rush. No need for quick wam bam thank ya ma’am. I am sure this is how he thinks but I am a turtle and I do business slow. So I will email him my questions and let him think about them…and let him decide what kind of person I am based on these questions. I am interviewing him just like he is doing to me.

Robert emails me immediately to answer all my questions. He says the girl who came after me already gave her deposit and is moving in Thursday. He says I would like her.

After waiting for Robert, the sex web cam guy, to email or call yesterday to tell me when we would be meeting Carol the hairdressor with a boxer dog, last night, and seeing that he still hasn’t emailed, I have let the fantasy of the Femmebot pad go. Apparently I didn’t want to give up $2500 right now. Too much flow I don’t have.

So my mind shifts to Singi and her apartment in Alexandria. Kevin lives there. I could visit him and his wife while going to see her place tonight.

I feel love as I ride the train to work. I am happy about going to my corner office with a huge view to do what I know how to do. And to top it off, I am feeling excited about living in Adam’s Morgan with Carol the hairdresser who loves Miami and her dog, Roxy.

I don’t wear shoes in the house.
I try to conserve energy although I enjoy a bath every once in a while.
I wash dishes immediately after use.
I am happy to walk the dog occasionally once she has gotten used to me.
I would love your advice on creative ways to do my hair.

I just saw a room in a house in the Capitol Hill neighborhood for $925 with $500 deposit. I would be sharing with two women whose names I don’t remember but they’ve got the good cop bad cop thing down pat and once they tell me about all the TV shows they watch, it’s apparent they think they are going to psychoanalyze me and break me down. It’s really quite amusing, the whole charade. One focuses on the antics of the cat and waits to watch me interact with it while the other doesn’t even introduce herself.

“Tell us about yourself, Gypsy,” she says. I know the game she is playing and there is nothing I do better than tell my own story so I take off my jacket and ask them how long they have. It’s fun because instead of answering her question I ask her a question and follow up with two more questions and both of them give me information before I have said a word.

He he he.

Anyways, they ask me what movies I have seen in the last year and what is my favorite movie of all time and my mind goes blank but finally I tell them about my fascination with sci fi B movies. They tell me they are addicted to Real Housewives and Project Runway. Are these really important questions? Yes. People who are addicted to TV have no creativity which is why the front living room walls are completely naked… I get the feeling these girls just moved in but they have been here 2-6 years. Maybe Mary, the one who is moving, was the decorator. She painted the dining room walls a fabulous orange color.

And the room? A cool blue color and an interesting yellow chest of drawers. No bed. A huge bathroom all to myself in the ground floor.

I can just hear the elephant stomping of the two girls as they fly up and down the creeky wooden stairs. Just like the house in Columbia Heights last night.

As they say - you get what you pay for. The rents on these places are lower but there are 2 extra people to deal with, no furniture, high utilitiy bills on account of the houses’ ages.

The Femmebot pad in Adam’s Morgan is the winner.. I think…I still have to meet Carol and Roxy. That will happen mañana!

Blue Chakra Friday
She is blond with a blue streak in her hair. She drives a blue car. She has a blue tongue ring.

I saw red on Monday and I am seeing blue today. Is it like seeing 11:11 or 66? Does my brain just look for these patterns or are these all signs? Or am I just consciously writing my script now?

Yes, I am writing my script. I want to live in the Femmebot Pad. I left my paperwork at the apartment. I am trusting Carol and her boyfriend with my information. It’s a good test. I trust her. She is straightforward. She was a ballet dancer who messed up her spine. She was supposed to go to NY.

“You were meant to do something else,” I say.

“Yes,” she smiles. “I love doing hair.”

She works at Bang, “the best salon in DC,” she adds, and the owner (who I looked up and read that he is a Harvard and UNC grad) has applied to put the salon on a TV show. Of course. This girl is beautiful, complex and creative - she would be a perfect reality TV show candidate.

I tell her about my bathtub ritual and she is intrigued. I tell her I liked Busboys and poets becaus I like spoken word and I do it myself and that I’d like to take it to another level here.

“There aren’t a lot of women who do it,” I say. And I realize that I am setting my intention for this location.

She tells me her salon is just around the corner and that she can ride her bike there. A chic who will ride her bike to work is the kind of chic I could get along with.

I tell her I used to be a promotions girl and dress in costume but I realized I couldn’t do that forever and that’s why I am here in DC, pursuing the left side of my brain. I just had an amazing meeting today with one of the policy directors, who will allow me to get into congressional hearings!!! Yes! I can’t wait.

We are both independent. We both have our own lives. We will learn to tango. She will help me enjoy my singleness the way I should have when I was her age. But whatever. I am enjoying it now. Age is irrelevant. I am 11 years older but we are at the same stage in life.

Carol laid down her ground rules while I ate my chicken sandwich at Busboys & Poets.

“I have my life, you have yours. We don’t have to be best friends. Ask first to use my things. Don’t be afraid to say something.”

And I responded, “Respect is the most important thing. No drama, I keep that in my fiction.”

“No drama,” she repeats.

“I think life is meant to enjoy people’s company and since I started practicing yoga, I have a way of dealing with my own issues without projecting them on someone else.”

She seems intrigued by this statement. But by the look on her face she is not entirely sure of what I am saying. But the fact that I am saying this means she has the ability to make me speak my truth. Blue chakra.

Does this mean she is perfect? No. She has a boyfrend who will spend the night. This doesn’t bother me. And I met him. He is cute and polite.

She has a mother who she calls a “gold digger.” But the fact that she was honest about it made me understand she has nothing to hide. There is no doubt she is flawed. But she is a girl I can respect. I can continue on my path and she will enhance it rather than interrupting it.

Why?

Because physical real estate costs more, and programmers here have figured out how to dupe clueless federal and non-profit organizations that are still functioning on 20th century paradigms.

Every wish a web publisher has ever requested in the last 15 years since the Internet became a publishing platform has been granted by programmers who LOVE creating solutions. Google it, and you will find a module/component that fits into the various open-source CMS’s out there. Google has shaken up banks, newspapers, the music industry and every other facet of our culture - including virtual real estate.

I can build a dynamic web site with all the bells and whistles for about $5,000. But in Washington, DC, the same web site costs anywhere from $50,000 to $90,000.  I could buy a really nice, sporty car for $50,000. And I bought my condo for less than $90,000.

It’s really quite remarkable.

Like a good virtual gypsy, I tried to educate my new client with these facts in various ways. I sent them links to articles, a dummy site that I created in a matter of minutes, offering all the items on their wish list, and showed my ability to hard code by fixing one of their antiquated flat HTML pages.

And yet, they continued to interview web firms that were $25,000-$75,000 out of their price range because they had a consultant who recommended them.

This consultant has 25 years experience and a PHD in computer something or other.

As far as I am concerned, her experience is out of date. Most people who started in this industry that long ago have a disadvantage because their understanding of how the Internet is supposed to work is completely different from a kid who grew up with it.

“You must hate me,” she said at our post-interview debriefing.

“I don’t hate you,” I said. “I just think our experience is different.”

I probably shouldn’t have told her that her 25 years of experience and fancy degrees were her Achilles heel. This was a snot-nosed, Mike TV kind of thing to say, and NOT the way to impress my co-workers, who are now literally afraid of me because I am not trying to play nice-nice with them. It is clear that I am an alien from Planet MyAmi in this Capitol of Power.

After a good scolding from my embarrassed supervisor, I have decided to back off and save the knowledge I have about the virtual real estate industry for my own endeavors, which I will return to in August, just in time for my 35th birthday. 35! I am here to pay off my karmic debt and to learn what I can. If I can keep this attitude, the next few months should be pleasant. I’d rather not make things more difficult by trying to convince an unwilling audience.

How do I feel about Washington, DC? Today I feel excited.

I am a virtual gypsy and the thought of absorbing the energy of a new city is part of my health plan.

Planet MyAmi can be toxic if one is overexposed for an extended period of time…which is why I quarantined myself so often.

It can get tiring blocking the chaotic energy all the time.

I watched the “Yes Man” and I feel positive about my possibilities rather than sad about who I am leaving behind.

This is my chance to continue balancing out my life.

I would like to find a place to live in the city before I start work. But none of the posters on Craigslist have responded in the last few days. Maybe I am not directing my energy enough.

What do I want? My own bedroom and bathroom. Furnished. The rest of the apartment furnished stylishly as well. Washer/ Dryer in unit. Cool roommate(s). Either 1 or 3 others. No odd numbers. Location urban, close to Metro, coffee shops, yoga studio, ethnic restaurants, gym, swimming pool, live music. $1300 or under, including utilities.

I need to be more specific about the WHO. Because I don’t want to absorb stupid energy. Then I’ll become stupid.

How do I feel about working for someone else? I am a virtual gypsy and I prefer solo work that I can do wherever I go.

First of all, it’s such an autonomous position it won’t be like working for someone else.

Second, to just do what I know how to do without pitching, proposing and worrying about the next paycheck is such a relief!

Third reason? To develop my network of blogs.

Oh! John, the realtor, called me back about a studio in Adam’s Morgan. Everything lined up so my friend dropped me off at the Herndon/Monroe Park & Ride Lot located at 12530 Sunrise Valley Drive. There are 1,745 free parking spaces. Fares are $1.35. Route 980 is the weekday, rush hour, express bus from this lot to the West Falls Church Metro station.

Ride Guide for Herndon/Monroe Lot (PDF)
Bus Schedule Search

I am supposed to be at the office by 8:30am my first day (urg). It takes about 10 minutes to get to the Herndon/Monroe P&R, and from there it takes 17 minutes to get to the West Falls Church metro, which is on the Orange Line, which will take me to Metro Station in 22 minutes to get to work, but to get to Adam’s Morgan, I continued to L’Enfant Plaza, and switched to the yellow or green line, which took me straight to U Street. I walked in my new black shoes in the freezing cold and saw the apartment on Chapin and 14th Street. I immediately started to feel like an artist again and began to imagine what life would be like as a resident in this building, just down the street from Busboys & Poets Cafe, named for the poet Langston Hughes.

John showed up and I instantly connected with the oldness of the building and its Art Deco lighting along the walls of the hallway which led to a wide, 20s-style stairway up to the second floor where studio 207 was just vacated and ready for a new story. The door opened up to a wall of shelves on the left and a few steps down the narrow hallway led to the clean, simple bathroom on the right. But there was still more hallway and we hadn’t even gotten into the main studio yet! On the left was a long coat closet just before a row of three stools at a bar that looks into a HUGE kitchen. Walk a little further and you are in the main part of the studio where the futon would go for sitting and sleeping, then step up into that HUGE kitchen with as many cabinets as an average-sized single-family home in the suburbs and enough space for a breakfast table. It’s really a perfect size for a single female like me, and perfect for writing and inspiration. I imagined my Femmebot comic book prototypes covering the walls because I would make this space an artist’s studio, not just a place for sleeping.

No laundry in the unit, I would have to go down to the basement and play with quarters again even though I’m paying $1425-$1500 every month. Not cool. And I would have to go outside to dump my garbage. Blaa. Utilities would be even more on top of that exhorbitant rent and suddenly my visions of my newfound bohemian life go POOF!!

Thanks, but no thanks, John. I can see why this apartment is still not rented.

So I cross the street to a brand new apartment building with signs advertising that they are currently leasing. The lady at the front desk isn’t particularly friendly but I don’t let that discourage me from asking to see the place. She tells me to come back in an hour so I do and Jason, the realtor who has blue blue eyes, comes out to the posh, brand new lobby to greet me. He shows me apartments on an interactive big screen TV, and I decide right then and there that this is where I need to live. I want high tech, the latest and greatest - I am not an artist in DC, I am a web manager in DC. I am an artist in Miami. Aaaaaaaa! Epiphany. I want a badass loft with floor to ceiling windows with views of the city. I want an LCD screen to tell me when the next metro is coming as I step off a high speed elevator. I want a wAsher and dryer in my unit and granite kitchen countertops and a big bathroom that has a shower built for two (me and my B-O-Y). I want a full gym, yoga studio, surround sound theater, business center with computers and conference room.

Do I want to pay $1830/month, not including utilities? No.

I have debt to pay off. I wanted to save money for school. Was this place a distraction from my purpose for being here? No.

I am the architect of my own life. I looked at this place for a reason. Don’t know why yet. The answer will reveal itself eventually. It always does, thanks, God!!!

OK, so when I got HOME (foreshadowing), I did my numbers. I need to pay off the debt as quickly as possible. And if I stay with my friend rather than moving into an overpriced arty or posh studio in the city, I can have everything paid off in 3 months.

Art by Clutch. Word by Jose Javier Rodriguez.

En los báncofa. The Bank. He’s talking to you. ¿’sta que hora cierran en los Bancofamérica…sabes? Pay attention: closing time. Voy pa’l que ’sta en la Güachingtong con la cientosiete. Bank of America. The one that’s on what street and what street. You couldn’t conjure up anything at all on One-oh-seventh, much less a bank. And anyway, where the bus was right then, you couldn’t say. No sé. That wasn’t a helpful answer. But you said something, so who cared. Your eyes and his met. Mi banco… creo que cierran a las cuatro y media. He was a man, like you, mid-twenties. He had a tight fade and slight goatee and he was looking you square in the eyes with his mouth closed and all places around his eyes taut, but not frowning. He was probably a quick mind. He was paying attention and practically reading you. It made you want to answer well. Pero los hay que cierran como a las cuatro. There, you said you don’t know but you rounded it out by guessing for him. Alright, bro, thanks. He had pale skin. You couldn’t place him. Born here or maybe came real young. You both switched to English once you saw one another. You’re riskin’ it. Your editorial comment about his decision to take this trip (possibly) in vain got no reaction, that you noticed.

You looked away from Late To The Bank Guy. But your head turned real slow the way people do when the conversation just stops, rather than clearly ends, and hangs in the air just a bit longer. He seemed like he would have noticed that it took you a couple of seconds to come up with a response. More likely, though, it seemed longer than it really was. Not that it mattered either way. But you were curious how he saw it. What he thought about it. What it would be like to be Late to the Bank Guy in that moment. You began to feel what it might be like to sit where he was, on that side of the bus. And you began to see the bus from his side and to see, sort of, what you would have looked like to him as he was looking at and talking to you. That’s all you could manage with your imagination. But to really see and hear the world as not you. Looking out on everything through the peephole of another’s front door. You could never know.

A god-awful squealing filled your ears and you were jerked forward. The one person standing, a man in the aisle at the front of the bus who was ducking his head and eyeing the door, was jerked frontward. Those sitting mostly hung forward a bit, about to drift back into place. The brakes. That must have been what woke you up from your nap on the window. At that moment you could hear the sound that had roused you. You were either just now remembering the sound of brakes or just now imagining it to go along with your newfound story about how you woke up. It was like being confused by a memory of something that might have had happened in real life, but might just as easily have happened in a convincing dream that morning. Sleeping on the damned bus. You’d been jolted awake to a sore head and drool. Having forgotten where you were, where you were going, that you were on a home visit. It took you a couple of seconds, at least, to look around and rediscover even who you were. More than just forgetting where you were, you were waking up into yourself. You could have woken up as anyone it seemed. But you came into yourself. Back into yourself. From nothing. Or from somewhere else.

London piercing Doc Martens I want to get my hair cut at Tony & Guy and look “smart” like sophisticated European girls straddling the Prime Meridian instead of a hippie long-haired wannabe Janis Joplin in Vienna drinking hot chocolate, I just want to sit in a café and sip on it and watch people until I get to Munich where Claudia, our hostess, is so educated and rich and I want to live just like she does after Nuremburg Hitler energy seeps into my subconscious for use later so that ugly people in Berlin watch Beavis and Butthead in German running back and forth across checkpoint Charlie with no consequences I am free I am free I am free of confessions in Edinburgh beers Yo La Tengo Chapel Hill techno twist to Washington, DC intern in a patent law firm on M Street that paves the way to New Hampshire Jewish girlz wearing Donna Karen that I can’t afford when I move to Michigan for a newspaper internship that turns into a crush on Karen and HTML coding search and replace Seattle for Colorado chiles drying in the afternoon sun because he went to San Francisco and I met a pioneer who gave me a break in a South Beach Warehouse with brick walls so I could feel like Ally McBeal but I am in my 20s and everyone is riding around on segues drinking Starbucks until I ride the MUNI to North Beach I traveled from city to city by instinct and because no one tried to stop me but I always had a job and a place to live so it was easy I met other Virtual Gypsyz in San Francisco at the height of the dot.com boom and the city looked more like a college campus with 20-somethings gliding around the warehouse district on segues while sipping from cardboard Starbucks cups but on a rare hot day in April 2001, I climb onto the bus toward North Beach and sit next to a B-O-Y with big brown eyes he speaks first and smiles I am a single woman in a city full of inappropriate suitors but he pops the question: “Would you like to get coffee sometime?” and we travel to a Russian Hill Art Show but I have to move out and get my own studio in the Tendernob where Trannies across the street fraternize with firemen on 9/11 more entertaining and louder than “Blind Date” on my tiny TV that swirls to Mexico City Murals and a trek to Costa Rica Mushrooms and Lenchak Match-ups in Nicaragua Butterflies over a small plane to Corn Islands with wind mills and the island I wished for in 1993 but I had forgotten and Honduras Slums lead to Guatemala Ruins and finally I land in MyAmi Vice money sex power real estate boom bust boom.