Is my suitcase here?
In September 2011, I was robbed in a NYC taxi. I was on my way to Tanzania, to meet Evan for a two-week trip. Evan had moved to London two weeks earlier, and I stayed behind, settling our affairs.
Earlier that week, a friend slept over and we stayed up all night, talking about her love life. I spent hours trying to convince her that the guy she was lusting after was a waste of time. The next day, I moved out of our NYC apartment and into my parent’s home in Westport, Connecticut, waiting until the last minute and refusing my father’s help. I didn’t want to inconvenience him and I believed I could do it all. At 10 p.m, I started the drive to Connecticut with the belongings that would see me through until I joined Evan in London. When I arrived, I was up until sunrise again, packing for my trip.
My exhaustion settled upon me, like a thick blanket. I arranged my outfits by day, matching tan linen pants with light tunics and flats. I included sexy dresses for the dinners Evan and I would have, talking about our new life in Europe. When I was done, I collapsed on my childhood bed for a catnap before my train ride back into the city.
That day, my flight to Amsterdam was at four, so I needed to leave the office at twelve to give myself enough time.
But, I didn’t leave work until 1:30. I nervously texted my husband that I was on my way to the airport while I texted other friends goodbye. At 23rd and Park, I jumped into the first taxi available, shoving my suitcase into the trunk, and asking the Asian driver to drop me off between 41st and 42nd and park, to catch the shuttle to JFK. I was still texting Evan and my friends, so I kept my carry-on slung across my body and my camera bag on my wrist.
