LETTERS NOT NUMBERS

A shitty day at work followed by two bottles wine.
The results?
Me booking a plane ticket to New York.

My best friends had been planning a trip to the US for over half a year. I originally said I would come, but when you’re working as a bar tender in London doing maximum hours for the minimum wage, money is sometimes a problem. It was a Friday night two weeks before their departure. I was working a double shift. I came home how I do most weekends – tired and smelling like beer. But tonight my brain bled with frustration from the antics of drunken patrons. I sat down on my couch with my four best friends – Danny, Jake, Julia and Sauvignon Blanc. Glass after glass, I watched them Google clubs and bars and restaurants and parks – all eager to sink their teeth into the Big Apple. I took another sip of my over poured wine.
I’m coming with you.

I woke up on January 2, severely hungover from New Years Day. But no sore head or lost house key could stop the adrenalin that slithered through my vodka filled veins. Today I was going to New York City. Given I’d booked the trip separate to my friends, my flight was an hour earlier than theirs. I packed the last of my things and ran downstairs.
Flight cancelled.
A huge blizzard was creeping into the concrete jungle – no one was going in or out. I checked my flight status – the only one not cancelled. Feeling bad for friends but still too excited and/or hungover to care, I got straight on the tube to Heathrow. We organised to meet in New York. When? – Who knew.

Three plastic meals and five movies later, I was in NYC. I waited for three hours at the airport cab rank. Every article of clothing I had packed in my suitcase was now wrapped around me. We were renting an apartment near China Town from a man whose name I can’t pronounce. I had an address, a number and 5% battery. I needed to get to the apartment, ring this man and get the key before my phone died.
4% battery.
I pushed my way to the next cab which was already occupied by a couple. After explaining my situation and using the old ‘I’m from Australia’ line, they smiled and let me share the cab. They got out first, wished me luck and handed me unfamiliar green paper to cover their share of the ride. The snow was heavy and the taxi smelt like Subway and stale cigarettes. I could barely see out the windows but could just make out the lines and curves of the Big Apple’s body. And I smiled to myself. How did I end up here?
Thank you, Sauvignon Blanc.