So I cycled in to town today to run some errands (sort out student loan and buy a tooth brush, pretty major). The lady at the bank first scared me and then pissed me off, classic bank scenarios. She first scared me by going "Whoaa, you've got a big loan!". Sigh. No, lady banker, it's standard. Also, don't talk to me like I'm a kid, I'm 25 (shiiiiiiit, I'm 25!?). Then she asked if I had finsihed university, that's when I realised: Yes. Yes, I have. She then asked me what was next. I said I was moving to New York. This results in her saying: "Oh, you are moving there for a man then?"
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10...... breath.
Most ridiculous question of the year, congratulations!
Lady banker, no. This is something your generation of women might have been all about. Not today, not me. Instead of giving her a much deserved lesson on generational differences, I bit my tongue, smiled and said: "No, I'm going there because I've wanted to live there ever since I first visited New York in 2007".
I'm what they call a "quester". Someone who goes to New York on a quest for something. In this case, that's a job. If this is a dream permeated by naivety, then so be it. If reality gives me a big, fat slap in the face, I'd welcome it. Embrace it. Hell, I'd even put it on my lap, brush its hair and sing a song to it. Because the truth is, not nearly enough people are lucky to receive a reality-check.
But that's something I will deal with in September. Now, I will go to Barcelona where I will spend a week strolling down the streets, forget to put on sunblock, struggle with my Spanish and drink cocktails I wouldn't be caught dead with anywhere else but in Spain. And I most definitely will ignore the potential for a double dip. Hey recession! I'm in Barcelona, bitch.
Until reality.
