Photo Credit: Alex Whitney (thanks Alex!)

The first year I lived in Brooklyn, I had only been working in my job for six weeks or so when the holidays arrived. Because I didn’t have any vacation time to use, I had to fly back from St. Louis to New York City on Christmas day. I remember schlepping my luggage from the airport to the subway, trying to leverage suitcases and backpack through subway turnstiles, up steps and down long Brooklyn blocks.

Those were the less romantic days of life in New York – the days when cab fare wasn’t possible, and hard work was the only way I was going to get from Point A to Point B.

That was one of the loneliest Christmases I can remember. My roommates were all at home with their families, so my apartment was cold and quiet. When I arrived at work the next morning, I had the building almost entirely to myself.

When I heard news yesterday that all of the airports in the greater New York City area were shutting down for 24-48 hours, I was indescribably relieved that I wasn’t one of the many people stranded in a cold, lonely airport terminal. Reading this blog post in the New York Times’ “City Room” about stranded subway trains, made me even more glad (if that’s even possible) that I’m in Missouri with it’s pleasant little dusting of snow.

In the two years since I left New York, this might be the very first time when, in the deepest, darkest parts of my heart, I’m truly glad I’m not there. I hope my friends in New York brought home well-stocked pantries in their little apartments, and that they’re able to hole up inside until the roads are cleared and the subways begin running smoothly again.

In the meantime, I’m going to appreciate my dry, snowless drive to work today a little bit more than usual.

I came across a photo of the Brooklyn Bridge by accident, and suddenly I could smell the air in DUMBO (down under the Manhattan and Brooklyn Overpasses) and hear the noises of New York City. As if I were standing at the edge of a high cliff, vertigo swept over me and my stomach turned flip-flops. My body froze for a second as if I might fall over the edge out of rural Missouri and into the heart of Brooklyn.

And then, as fast as it overcame me, I was back in my leather desk chair in my cozy office in rural South/Central Missouri where the air smells like trees and the only noises are my office fan and Peter Gabriel’s cover of “Flume”.

This guy’s online profile talked about his love for music and the arts, but my hopes for sophisticated conversation about concerts, galleries, and favorite musicians were crushed when I was met by a dude in half-laced tennis shoes, a black concert t-shirt, and a raggedy messenger bag with a babka inside.

Cherry Cheese Babka, photo by smalltowngirl

The only time this smalltowngirl had ever even heard of babka was on the infamous Seinfeld episode during which Elaine waited in a long line for a chocolate babka to take with her to a holiday party.

I was simultaneously amused and appalled that this guy, who incidentally looked not unlike a younger version of George Castanza (he even lived with his mom on Staten Island) brought a messenger-bag-smooshed babka to me on a first date.

Oddly, this wasn’t the first time that a man brought me baked goods on a first date. Babka Boy’s first date with me was also his last, so single men of the world take heed that baked goods are best off kept removed from first dates.