want my life? take it.

No don't -- yes, do! I'll admit it -- i'm one conflicted SOB. But for now, i'm taking a little time off this summer to raise some cash and actually do some Living in Gotham.

Here are some thoughts from the USAir 905a to Charlotte not too long ago, which was supposed to hook me up to a Memphis flight. Unfortunately, we didn't make it (thank you, La Guardia, you Seed of Satan) -- I might not have been as kind had I been writing this from the rocking chair on the concourse at Charlotte/Mecklenburg where I got to cool my heels for four hours. Who knows -- those rocking chairs do kick ass...i miss them a lot.

Did you miss the California Diaries? Here.

Travel writers aren’t supposed to, nay, are not allowed to have problems.

Well, apparently. In my brief but illustrious career as a junketeering journo for the always delightful, seldom frightful New York Post, I had the opportunity to do a great many things, including hearing how “New York” is pronounced in foreign countries as widely diverse as France, Brazil, Texas – I got to explain the difference between the Washington and New York Posts more than I care to remember, and in a good forty percent of my travels, I was crowned an honorary New York Times reporter. From your mouth to Arthur Ochs' ears.

Anywho – no doubt, it was one hell of a ride, but the shocking truth about these cats and dogs came clear almost instantly – friends who once spent hours on the phone with me as we exchanged our news both good and bad, sought the wise counsel of peer, et al and ad nauseum -- suddenly, I had no problems.

You’d think, from the amount of times I had to sit through the quickly customary “oh please, I wish I had your life” tirade.

True, many of my problems were a lot cuter and more eclectic than the average Joe or Jane found themselves facing on a daily basis, but it mattered not that I got to fly to Los Angeles or Puerto Vallarta or Thunder Bay, when there’s $100 in the bank and the phone company is banging down the door. The lovely ladies at Verizon became my very best of friends as we arranged payment plans, my Salvadoran landlord, bless his heart (as our Southern friends would say) never quite understood why, if I was on my way out the door to Africa, the rent was going to be late.

“You always on vacation,” he’d say. “But you no pay rent! Is crazy!”

Is crazy yes -- but vacation? No, not really.

I tried my best to explain, but after a while, it hit me that if most Americans couldn’t comprehend the travel writer’s job description, why should Carlos, who comes from a country where the newspapers don’t have travel sections?

With the only person who truly understood me being a twenty-five year old public relations wizard and good friend living in Los Angeles, the wires burned up and phone bills grew longer. It was clear, I was going to have to retrain my friends.

Retrain them to understand the stress of traveling unaccompanied to Sao Paulo with a handful of cash in the bank, more promised soon (you hope - paying on time often wasn't the Post's highest priority).

How about the “sudden angle shift”, where you find yourself at a Johannesburg ATM (unmolested, thank goodness) and find that your check did not go through as planned. Suddenly, restaurants are not part of the story, unless you're covering the finer points of South African fast food, which is just as nasty as ours.

Or arriving in a city, informed by your ever-vigilant concierge that the city is not safe and please to you not go out.

Well, Isn’t that special.

How about the endless tours on the junkets, meetings with people you’d rather poke the eyes out of than listen to for one more second, 7AM breakfast meetings where the coffee never comes quite quickly enough, and when it does, well, I’ve discovered that 70% of the world prefers it’s coffee weak and bitter.

Don’t complain, I wish I had your life.

Over and over. So life’s a bitch? Yes. On the road, just like anywhere else. All of a sudden, I had a brilliant idea. Needed to spend a week in Mexico City – time to phone a friend.

I’d grown tired of what seemed to be the World’s Most Dangerous Cities themed tour that my life had become – tired of doing it alone, anyway, and I knew that not only would Annie be fun to have around, she also spoke more Spanish than I, who gets along better in conversational Portuguese (for some odd reason, it stuck better than Spanish could ever hope to) than the language of the rest of the goddam continent.

It was perfect. Annie was married to my best friend in New York, and she would get to experience both four days of meetings and tours plus three days of unbridled madness as we hopped orange and lime green subways, crowded yet super efficient peseros, and lived like king and queen of the Mexico City upper-class which is a lifestyle lived very easily by penniless New Yorkers. Hired car, driver, tickets to the ballet? $35 apiece. Dinner for two with wine at a sexy little sidewalk bistro in the Condesa? $20 with tip.

We had fun. Annie finally said what I wanted to hear, once we returned home – “Now I understand what your life is like!”

Lots of good, lots of headaches, a little bad. But yes, lots of good.

Annie and I slept in separate rooms, but you’d think I was the ultimate stud, the way people treated me, simply because the willowy gorgeous one would see fit to travel with a schlump like me. It was heady – I’d never realized the cred one gets automatically with a sultry songstress on one’s arm (she’s a fantastic musician), even if she’s as familiar as a sister to me.

Yeah, I don’t get much action. Who wants a penniless writer, even if he gets to travel? If you require physical contact with other human beings (other than New York and Los Angeles' incessant air kissing), hold the phone.

Traveling is a lonely game. But hey, you want my life – you know you do.

Go right ahead, yes, the grass is always greener across state and international lines, children – absolutely.

Why then, am I on a plane to Memphis for a little ribs and blues, even though I currently am with $60, an amount that will, not has to, will, hold me until next Thursday, when my paycheck will slide right through checking and into my landlord’s hands?

He'll no doubt be surprised to see the rent on time, seeing as I’ve been on ‘vacation’ for the past year and all that.

Is crazy.

Life's sweet.