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The short story is: I met a girl whilst holidaying in New York — a cocktail waitress at a bar I sometimes visit when I'm there — and left her a ridiculous tip along with my number, expecting never to hear from her. As it turns out, I did hear from her. Five minutes after I left the bar. With only two more nights left in New York (before moving on to Chicago and LA, then back to Australia) I convinced her to meet me for a drink, the night before I was due to fly out, at a bar in the East Village at 2:30 in the morning — she works late, you see. We drank Scotch and talked until dawn, and I walked her to a subway station, and she went home. There was a little kissing in there somewhere, too. Or a lot. And it was hard to see her walk away. The next morning I flew to Chicago as planned, knowing that reason would soon prevail and I would stop entertaining the impossible thought of returning to New York to see her — a girl I'd spent a total of two and a half hours with. I had meetings set up in LA, after all. Reason did not prevail. Or perhaps it did. Twenty-four hours after arriving at O'Hare, I cancelled my flights to LA and booked a ticket back to JFK. I called to tell her. She told me I was crazy. I am, I suppose. Nonetheless, we spent four perfect days in Brooklyn together before I had to leave, and now I am back in the US, wandering around Williamsburg holding her hand, and finally getting around to those LA meetings. She's coming to Australia in two weeks, for the first time. These pictures are from my crazy, impulsive return trip to New York in May. Sometimes crazy is good.
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