two weeks

I was in New York City for the first half of May. Two weeks. It sucked. Of course, saying 'New York City' makes it sound like I was engulfed in bright lights and city life and shows and dances and It's The Jewel of the Atlantic! when in reality I was staying at a renovated nine-story motel in the heart of Staten Island, with bathrooms so small you actually had to close the door in order to reach the toilet.

One of my Staten Island colleagues, an IT contractor for the client clinic, went out to lunch with my coworker and me on my first day there. "Anything to do here?" I asked.

"Nope," he said.

Daunting. "What do you do to have fun?" my coworker asked.

"Go to Manhatten."

Two weeks in Staten Island. By myself. I was beginning to feel depressed about it already, and I'd only been there 14 hours.

"Anything to see in Staten Island?"

The contractor considered. "The dump," he offered eventually. "It's one of the only two man-made things you can see from space."

Fancy that. There was a moment's silence.

"You must be so proud," I said.

It was, all in all, a tiring and traumatizing trip. I was in Staten Island for fourteen days, all told, and -- with the exception of one Sunday when I went on strike and slept a solid 14 hours, one for each day -- I didn't have a single day where I worked less than 12 hours. By the end of my trip, I'd clocked 133.5 hours. That's a lot of time to spend working.

I worked so much, I didn't get to go to Manhatten. I didn't see any shows. I didn't go out to dinner -- excepting Appleby's, because they were open after 11 pm -- or lunch, or breakfast. I didn't hit a club. I didn't even see the Staten Island Dump, as seen from space.

Opportunities lost, my friend.