I finished all 7 seasons of Sex and the City last December. This summer, when prancing around Fashion Ave and 36th, sipping a glass of wine with a darling friend, throwing my hand up to catch the attention of a passing cab - my mantra has been consistent: What would Carrie do?
My internship is drawing to a close; short week from today, only Georgia will be on my mind. Putting the period on the end of an unforgettable summer, I took a short walk from my soon-to-be-vacated dorm to 66 Perry Street.
For many passerbys, this address signifies nothing but another stoic and overpriced piece of New York real estate. For the handful of women like myself who crowded the concrete steps for a quick photo op, 66 Perry Street echoed with the pitter-pattering of Manolo Blahniks and symbolized goodnight kisses with many a big city lovah.
This is Carrie Bradshaw's stoop. Sarah Jessica Parker may have merely been the icon that stood affront the towering brownstone and copious cameras for six seasons, but 66 Perry Street is the Manhattan Sex and the City defined for so many viewers like myself.
I sat. I smiled. I asked a fellow fan to snap my picture. As I totter on the edge of tomorrow and yesterday, I asked myself, "What would Carrie do?"
Carrie would shop, Carrie would embrace life, Carrie would love those who love her back and, most of all, Carrie would write.
What comes next are scribbles of dreams on this blog - soon to be manifested in a fabulous, fabulous future.
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