“My best friend flew back home the morning after we arrived in Spring Hill. “It’s hot and I hate Florida,” he said. When he left I had nothing to do but sit up late outside, trying to enjoy the sticky, sweet nights and the quiet, reading or writing, realizing how incredibly alone I was in this new state. Nothing would be the same ever again.”
One month ago I moved for the sixth time in as many years.
The list of locales is pretty varied. An Irish neighborhood in the northern Bronx, bordering on Yonkers and Westchester. Bayville, a small, blue-collar village right on the Long Island Sound, amidst Long Island’s storied Gold Coast. Cambridge, Mass., where I had many adventures during my short-lived stay just outside Boston. The quaint, quirky, and incredibly haughty Hamptons. Middle-of-nowhere Spring Hill, Fla., where I moved in with my father and experienced culture shock like never before.
Now, finally, I’ve landed in wonderful, bizarre, dirty, artsy St. Petersburg.
And I rented a U-Haul to do it.
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