Miss America

Eight months in, I cave: I miss America. Or, more accurately, I miss my version of America.

I want to button up a hooded coat.

I want to ride a bicycle.

I want to fly somewhere without a passport.

I want to find waffles at 2pm.

I want to choose seats in a whisper in a movie theater.

I want to lay in a park.

I want to drink tap water in the middle of the night.

I want a can opener that opens cans.

I want to shower between 8am and 7pm.

I want to pillage a bakery.

I want to go to a concert.

I want someone to un-break my Oliver Peoples.

I want to eat pad see ew.

I want dry laundry that doesn’t smell like wet dog.

I want to have a beer on a rooftop.

I want a steady supply of dark blue denim.

I want to load a YouTube video.

I want to hear the words “Cash or credit?”

I want to talk to the locals and maybe, under my breath, say something they find funny.

I want every series season since September.

I want postcards reminding me it’s time for a check-up.

I want to cling for dear life to a subway pole.

I want an oven with numbers on the dial (Chinese, Arabic, any numbers, guys).