Out of the wonderfully warm and not too hot frying pan; into the raging fire!

After 17 blissful, stress-free days of someone else making you breakfast and drinking wine spritzer after wine spritzer in the gentle warmth of a Viennese summer, normal life really really sucks.

My return to New York was like a slap in the face. I got out of the plane and felt the humidity and the heat of the city waiting to engulf me in its stinky misery. I stood for what seemed like an eternity on the platform at Howard Beach waiting on the silly A train. I lugged my suitcase up the stairs at 125th Street because the elevator was, of course, out of order. Trash swirled around my ankles as I walked the four blocks through Harlem to my place. Up the dust coated stairs and into my doorless apartment. Hastily plugged in my phone, which had drained itself over 2.5 weeks, and organized a place to stay for the night. Packed another bag and left my doorless apartment and all my possessions unprotected. Monday was back to work with lots of emails and a boring meeting with a stupid Park Avenue consulting firm. Monday night: no door. Again. The landlord promised there would be one before he left for the evening. At 11 PM my roommate and I gave up and retreated to the dust free sanctity of her friend's apartment, where I slept on the couch. Before we left I received a promise that the landlord wouldn't leave until there was a door. This morning we returned at 7 am to: no door. Am I surprised? Made plans to sleep somewhere else again tonight, packed another bag. Came to work and developed a headache, which brings us to now.

Why did I come back?