Heartbreak

So you’ve heard I was infatuated and in love. Well, not so much anymore. There I was thinking love could last forever, when really only a month later I was back to feeling loveless. Eternal love was a mere holiday affair that quickly turned into a cold break up. So now I’m heartbroken. In a typical post-breakup state, I have been listening to music that reminds me of the times spent with my ex love. And, if it weren’t for the fact I am still suffering from severe repercussions of an intoxication produced by a garlic seasoned lobster two weeks ago, I would too, be eating my feelings away.

Translation: I’m homesick. I’m homesick like a six-year-old child who gets sent off to a camp in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin where she is the only person who does not speak English.

After spending two weeks in La Guajira, in the northern coast of Colombia-- the most beautiful place I have ever been to (if you don’t believe me wait for pictures that will come in the following blog post)--I arrived to NY last Tuesday night. From 15 days in a bikini and a pair of shorts (quiet literally. The same pair of shorts was worn every day) I had to step back into the freezing cold to wear my one winter jacket that makes me look like I am part of a baseball team. No, it’s not my senior jacket. But close enough and I hate it equally the same. On the bright side, it was the first time I walked into JFK and I was not stared at for the being the whitest (palest) person to step of a plane coming from Colombia.

But now the tan is gone. And how does NY receive me? The driver from the Super Shuttle van yells at me for eating a granola bar in the car. It wasn’t even the crunchy kind. It was a cereal bar, which leaves no crumbs so I don’t understand what the whole fuss was about.

To top off my homesickness, in comes my jealousy. Right about now my entire family is happily reunited in the beautiful sunny weather of my cousin’s summerhouse to celebrate my grandmother’s birthday. So my family excludes me. Great. Being Robi a smart man, he neglected to tell me this event was going to happen until my last day in Bogota. Nice move Robs. I would have, no questions asked, changed my ticket for this coming week.

Knowing about this party that I was excluded from I decided to get a little wild last night. However, I stepped out into the big apple nightlife just to be more disappointed than I was before. Explain to me, if you can, why is it that some clubs believe that it’s a good idea to cut songs half way through the lyrics? Just when I’m starting to feel the song, feeling the groove and getting my dance moves on, bam! The song switches to something else. Last night, 2 a.m. Sexy Bitch comes on. Trashy choice? Perhaps. But it was one of my road trip songs, so let me be sensitive for a minute. I step into the dance floor and by the look in my face everyone knew that clearly this song has touched a soft note. (God sometimes I’m even surprised by my music choices).

But then the DJ decides it’s appropriate to mix up the song, which ends up sounding like: “Se se seeee sexy bbb bb bitch sexy you sexy sexy bi bi bitch”. And when you thought it couldn’t get worse, the DJ throws you a surprise--an extra mix with One More Time which ends up with me trying to sing something that sounds somewhat like: “Se se sexy time. Uhuu One more Bitch. Sexy Bi Bi Bitch. One More Sexy Bitch Time.” Horrendous.

But then at 4 a.m. I am hungry and only in Manhattan can I find food (real food: vegetable soup and a chicken sandwich) at this hour. Then I walk into my building, which is slightly slanted to the right side and may or may not fall soon. Then into my apartment which is freezing cold because the heat doesn’t really work and weirdly enough I somehow remember why NY is in fact so charming.

Note to self: raise standards of a charming life.