In the midst of realizing my day's worth of documentary footage was corrupted and useless, I found a nickel. I held it in the palm of my hand, went to the bathroom, and cried.
Happy Thanksgiving. There is nothing like the holidays to remind you that you're not home. I miss everything: Chattanooga, my quirky family and pseudo family, my dad's raunchy jokes at the dinner table, the dorky, floral wallpaper in the dining room, chips and queso from Taco Mac, freshly ironed tablecloths, blue vases, cheese plates and (apparently) nickels.
I miss New York too. I miss Thursday nights, $2.50 falafels at Mamouns, discounted drinks at the Thirsty Scholar, chicken, lamb and rice smothered in white sauce from the 53rd and Lex street cart, dollar pizza, late night Taco Bell in Union Square and Jamaican hookah bars.
We will be celebrating an American Thanksgiving dinner tonight with NYU. We'll have turkey, macaroni and cheese and good music. And my food coma will certainly change my momentarily panicky desire for home. But for now, I think I'll hold onto my nickel and sulk.