Airplane. My next step is Tel Aviv. I leave Marc, (are you stupid? You have been looking for a decent man for all your life and now you are going away from him?), I already miss him, so much. I will be guest of a friend of mine, a stylist that moves in a stimulating and cross-sectional environment, maybe I will manage to change my thoughts and focus on something that is not a tall, blonde man with amazing eyes.
I arrive in Amsterdam in the late afternoon. I ask the taxi-driver to drive me to Dam place where I booked my room in a hotel.
While I flow through the city, differences between here and Paris come to my mind: Amsterdam is so essential, bikes everywhere and canals that give a taste of ancient to a modern and avant-garde city. I reach the center.
Miami. Transoceanic flight. Flight-attendants are always my nightmare. I decided that I will only drink, even if I travel in business class and I could eat caviar. I drink and I detox myself for 12 hours from everything that I downed around. For now I need just to be comfortable and have my blanket.
The flight is good and I arrive in Miami at 10 a.m. . I never understand the difference between departure and arrival when time zones are so different. Here everything can happen.
When someone asks me: – What is your job? – and I reply: – I’m a writer-, usually everyone around me rolls his eyes and insists with a renewed emphasis: – No, I mean, for a living, what’s your job? – . This already explains my desire to escape and the fact I’m boarding this plane.
This is how professional writers really are: doomed souls that try to convince the other to take them seriously.