The only thing that can be good about being on the subway at seven-thirty in the morning with the earlybird drunks is if one is on one’s way to a breakfast tête-à-tête with Kat at Balthazar. I was so happy as to find myself in just that situation today, and maybe it was altogether Magic Day or something, ’cause when I popped into the boulangerie next door for a cranberry-pecan loaf, I found a ten-dollar bill crumpled up in the corner on the little black-and-white bakery tiles. The ten-dollar bill bought a cranberry-pecan loaf and a hot cross bun, with a dollar left for good luck.

(Although, crap, now I remember that when I found a fifty-kroner note on the street in Trondheim last summer, Khim Ee-ee said, “That’s lucky, and you must make sure to never spend it, because it means you will always have money.” I said, then, “But what if there’s a war and I’m all out of money except for this fifty-kroner note and I’m hungry? In that case can I maybe spend it?” “No,” she said, “and anyway if there were a war the money would be worthless.” She is sensible, that Khim Ee-ee; possibly superstitious, but sensible nonetheless. I still have that fifty-kroner note, it is tucked into my daily Moleskine, and it is pretty and green and has waterlilies and dragonflies on it. But the tenner is gone, oh, but the breadsmell of fresh and baking was all around me and I didn’t think about my future.)

We were having a perfectly lovely breakfast, me and Kat, in the red leather booth curving round us like girls with secrets, and I don’t know how we got to talking about Cyndi Lauper, and then I don’t know how we got to talking about “She Bop,” and I said, “Oh, that is a great song,” and Kat said, “Yes,” with meaning, so I said, “Wait, what?” and she said, “Because you know what it’s about, right?” So, of course, no, and it turns out, well, maybe I am the last person in the world to know this, but, uh, so. I mean, call me flabbergasted. I think I said: “What? No. What? No. I mean, okay, whatever, I support the slow art of self love, but come on. Come on! The lyrics are: She bop, he bop, a we bop, I bop, you bop, a they bop. What? No.” And then Kat pulled out her iPod, and we listened, and okay, fine, but I counter it’s still...ambiguous.



After, there was quickstepping my way westward through SoHo to the hair appointment with Norman, as if I don’t have to be done with this thesis in two weeks. I told him at the end, in a mumbly way, “Um, so I don’t know how to tell you that I’m moving to London.” And his face lit up and he said, “Oh, how exciting! I’m ready any time, when do we leave?” He suggested later that I try a Toni&Guy, and—barring a flight back to the corner of Spring and Sixth Avenue—I suppose I will, but the story I didn’t tell him was that in the fall of 1997 I was in London and all hepped up on living in Europe, and I checked into a Toni&Guy for a stylin’ London haircut, whereupon the tubby, cheery fellow wielding the scissors revealed he was from Batu Pahat or something. I suppose I’d been amused, at the time, at the kaki nang experience, but I think I also somehow felt a niggling sensation of having been cheated of a trendo London sitch.

Today, however, I was robbed of nothing, and even got to take an excursion to (this goes out to you, Saffron, because of thanks for making me think about it) Gourmet Garage for a bag of Irish raisin scones to go with the bitter orange jam Maud gave me the other day. Of course this is code for: I came out with a hunk of Comté, a round of smoked Gouda, a tub of ricotta, and several slices of bresaola and prosciutto. And a bag of Irish raisin scones.

So, but, you see? Magic Day.

And, okay, now I really believe I am going to samurai it up and show this thesis who’s boss. We have a challenge (that’s French!), me and Maud, and by Tuesday we will each have written seven pages, and then she’ll come over, and we’ll rent a movie and act like we’re ladies in a country house. I told her I was going to cook her something great for dinner, and, if this crappy weather keeps up, it may have to be a lamb tagine.