Far too much Sherry. I never even drank the stuff before last night. Tastes like an old box of raisins, but boozy. I like it. I think.

Who gets ripped on Easter? I guess I do.
I hope excusing myself from work in the afternoon isn’t going to cause problems for me this week. I needed to pray next to my own porcelain.

I’ve guzzled six types of liquids, took a mighty nap and three aspirin and am now feeling something a little nearer to normal. Now here I find myself, bleary-eyed, bent over my computer in my bedroom behind the window of the old candy shop, giving this blogging a try.

This place, quietly disguised as an empty storefront, is a place I’ve called home now for two months. A little corner of New York, nestled underneath the BQE. A former art gallery turned candy shop, according to our Italian-American landlord.
“Used to call this area Brooklyn Bays,” the doorman at Daddy’s, the bar up the street, told me.
Not much of a bay. But, I do pretend the whipping car sounds are waves crashing gently onto Zuma Beach; if I close my eyes and put my face to the sun, I can nearly taste the salt spray.

It was a long and arduous search finding an apartment, in winter, in NYC. So, I was relieved when back in February I read a post on Craigslist: “Two nice girls looking for a 3rd, without too much stuff, to share our place in Williamsburg. We have 2 cats and 1 dog”.
“Me! I’m that girl,” I thought, before jotting down the phone number.

After two rings I got an answer.
“Hiya,” answered a perky voice.
“I’m calling about the room you posted on Craigslist?”
“Oh, yeah! Come on over and check it out if you want. We are just hanging out playing music and eating breakfast sandwiches.”
I heard a few guitar strings pluck in the background.
“Ok cool, I can come by this afternoon.”

It was a Sunday in February, following a big snowstorm and the streets were piled high with fresh snow. I pulled on my Sorel boots for their maiden voyage, purchased two weeks previously, just in time. Thanks to this fortuitous purchase, I confidently plunged my foot into and eventually over the 3-foot snow drifts until I found the painted-on numbers and let myself in, as instructed.

I made my way through the red, wooden door that creaked, and still creaks, like an old rocking chair. Through a long, wide hall, flanked by a church organ and some bicycle parts, I found myself in what looked like the living room. The room was full of paintings and wall hangings. A big orange couch yielded to a pile of blankets and a little gray cat. A record was playing some noodling guitar music at low volume. The colorful chaos of the space must have reminded me of home because I felt at ease right away.

A voice greeted me from behind a bedroom door before emerging. I quickly recognized the relaxed, friendly tone as the same from the phone.
“I’m Krissie, you must be Sophi.”

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“You moved here from San Francisco? We just got back from there. We loved it. It is just sooooo . . . ” said Krissie.
“Dreamy,” answered a voice.
A tall and slender woman with jet black hair emerged from the open back door.
“I’m Mercedes.”
I quickly noted her incredible posture and intentional gestures.
“Sorry I am late, I was on a phone call with Neal.”
Krissie squealed.
“Neal is a bro in SF who is just . . . “
Mercedes’s voice trailed off wistfully.
“Just the sexiest, cutie EVER,” Krissie answered.
“Yeah. He is, isn’t he . . .” sighed Mercedes.
“We were out there visiting these buddies of ours, they are in this band Warriours. You’ll meet them eventually I’m sure.” Krissie explained.
It was as if we were three old friends who’d picked up a conversation that had begun years ago.

Krissie is from the South. Mercedes has spent nearly a decade in New York, attending boarding school here from age fifteen, where much of her studies were concentrated in ballet and theatre, hence the posture.

Both fire signs. I’m earth. That is good, I think. Krissie is like a puppy dog, bounding toward you; Mercedes is more cat-like, circling around you. Me, I’d say I’m more dog-like. So that makes for an even household – 3 dogs and 3 cats.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *    *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Anyway, back to my present state. Yesterday we had a little party in the backyard for Easter Sunday, our first gathering as roommates. I met a bunch of Krissie and Mercedes’s friends. Mariah & Wade came by, but they didn’t stay long. It’s been hard transitioning to life here from San Francisco, particularly on them; I feel our paths diverging. It’s good we are branching out and making new friends, but I hope we don’t lose each other in the process.

We made all the foods that reminded of us of our respective homes on Easter: deviled eggs, potato salad, sliced ham, etc. Shea, Krissie’s sometimes boyfriend, grilled some beef he’d marinated for two days that was ”A-Maaaazing”. I don’t eat meat, but that is what everyone said. By midnight, wine and beer bottles were strewn about the little jungle that is our backyard, and everyone was at full tilt. Just about then, someone – you never know who in those tipsy hours – suggested that we move our party down to the bar. That’s when the Sherry came out. That handsome bartender Cody, a real Fitzgerald type fella (swooped hair and always sipping on something caramel colored), suggested it. Bad idea. I think I ended the night talking to Krissie’s friend Charli about how the neighborhood used to be called “Brooklyn Bays”. A topic for which we both had A LOT to say; a conversation that I must admit I recall very little. Maybe it will come back to me later . . . in any case, I’m happy to be discovering this new city by the bay.