Bustling yellow taxis, crammed subways and overpowering skyscrapers framed the landscape of my weekend. Aggressive locals, exhausted train conductors and impatient store clerks shared this environment with me. My scene was the “Big Apple,” Alicia Keys’ “concrete jungle”: New York City.

We all know places that make us feel “alive.” These locations might rest below mountains, stand along oceans, or hide deep within acres of pine trees and thick woods. I have been to those places where nature’s majestic strength rushes a person’s soul to the point of enlightenment. But, this weekend I returned to the type of place that stole my heart for two years before moving to New Orleans – the big city.

Six days, 1,500 miles and seven states later, we made it to our final destination of New Orleans, Louisiana. This city will be my new home for at least the next 16 months and will mark the birthplace of a new life journey while I pursue my Master’s Degree at Tulane University.

Since Dan only had limited time in the city (he’s embarking on his own adventure with a one-way ticket to Nepal and plan to climb Mount Everest) and I could not move into my apartment for a few more days, we decided to explore New Orleans as we have every city on our road trip – as tourists. We kicked off our time with a stop at Plum Street Snoball, one of the oldest and most popular snoball stands in the city. Snoballs compare best to “snow cones” only with more finely shaved ice, more flavor options and a sturdier cup to hold the refreshing treat together.

Life has a funny way of throwing curves, forcing change and presenting new opportunities. In the past month, I have gone through a series of unexpected changes and battled a handful of tough decisions that would directly impact my next stage of life. While emotional and confusing, I have somehow landed myself in the perfect place to begin my new journey – my new Chicago apartment; my diamond in the rough.

I knew little about the mile-high city before I moved there nearly four years ago. I understood that Denver was a city out west, but to a New Yorker the west meant nothing more than cowboys, dirt and tumbleweed. Colorado and its surrounding states looked like big squares on a map to me, and I found it nearly impossible to tell them all apart. I realized the city had been growing rapidly over the past decade, but a part of me still wondered how often I would pass saloons, horses or ranches once I moved there.

I gazed out the window, exhausted, as the plane made its late-night descent into Denver. It would be my first trip back to the mile-high city since moving away almost one year ago. As I looked down at the familiar lights of the city below, I became overwhelmed with feelings of both comfort and unsettlement. Denver had been my “home away from home” for three years, and now I was returning as a visitor.

take their time walking down the middle of the train station steps when a train is approaching: Please step to the side – any side – so the trail of people behind you has a chance to catch their ride. You may not be in a hurry, but the group of people you are delaying on the steps behind you may not be interested in waiting around for the next train.

wish to stop at the crosswalk when the opposite traffic light is still green but the red crosswalk hand is blinking: Kindly step away from the crowd, as there are others who are late to work and will gladly enter the crosswalk, even if it means jogging across the street once that red hand freezes.

I have never been one to need a lot of material possessions. Besides travel, the majority of my money has always gone to things of necessity: food, college loans and shampoo. I love shopping, but usually end up waiting in line thinking up ridiculous comparisons like “Instead of buying these two shirts for $50, I could save the money and only need another $150 for a plane ticket to Philadelphia. I’ve never been to Philly before.” I believe people refer to it as buyer’s remorse.

While I occasionally carry my own little struggles with not owning a car in Chicago, it has been brought to my attention that others may struggle with my not owning a car in Chicago as well.

Last weekend I did not shower for three days straight (see “Where’s the Plumber?” post on 5/22/10), then was due at a cake decorating class (yes, cake decorating) in the middle of the third afternoon. After a morning of being told the water would be fixed and one hour prior to having to catch the bus, I hopped the first cab I saw to my saint of a friend Ian’s apartment to grab a quick shower. Since it was 90 degrees out, the cab driver had the windows up, leaving me no choice but to continuously apologize for “stinking up his cab.” I had worked out twice since my last shower, so I gave him a good tip. God bless that man.

The same embarrassment goes for public transportation. Last night I went to an outdoor bootcamp class and, after an hour of sweating in the summer heat, I hopped a bus home. I only hoped my stench wouldn’t waft too far off my body to the passengers sitting near the aisles. I moved slowly, as to not create a draft as I walked by, then found a seat in my own corner of the bus.

It’s 9:00pm on Saturday night – one of the first I have had free in a while – and I am sitting on my couch waiting for the plumber to give me the go ahead to pee, shower and refill my Brita. I am pondering the irony in this situation and decided I’m quite certain it’s a sort of practical joke the universe is playing on me.