I’m Amanda. I’ve got wide eyes, a smart mouth, and a MetroCard. And I’m not afraid to use them.
These last few weeks have expired faster than milk at the corner store, which is to say, very fast. Too fast. Defying the fuzzy numbers printed on the carton fast. I’m busy with comedy, fiction class, and doing things that are giving me material for both.
I’ve successfully completed my yearly reading goal. I still want to read, but I don’t have the time or concentration right now.
It’s your turn.
Here’s a question from Nia: 
Before I moved to NYC, I did the typical tourist thing a few times and stayed at midtown hotels rife with dust mites and other tourists.
Because people visit NYC to see other people who are visiting NYC, right?
Then I spent a few spring breaks traveling with groups from college. We visited with a mission: to work at a non-profit by day and spend every other minute doing something urban and exciting. We didn’t plan to get much sleep, so no one was picky about lodgings.
And this is how I ended up sleeping at an old firehouse-cum-flophouse with toilets that didn’t flush and open shower stalls. And have I got a contact dermatitis story for you!
I also once stayed at a Y.M.C.A. Don’t believe the song - it’s not that fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A.
Here’s a question from Sid:
I’ve only purchased a one-way ticket once in my life. It was my last trip to NYC the summer after I graduated college. That time, I wasn’t flying back home with mere prospects or the cushion of the future. I was moving by staying still.
I recently wrote about my dad leaving me in NYC once and for all, how I cried and stayed in the rest of the night. It felt weird to walk around in a new place knowing I couldn’t possibly bump into anyone or anything I knew.
My first few weeks here involved long trips on foot during the day and nights in with movies from the library. Starting my teaching job opened the city up to me, as did dating. Now I’m either in my apartment writing or sleeping, or I’m out doing everything else I do. This unfamiliar, gray place has been home for nearly four years.
Here’s a question from Leah:
I started blogging to keep up with my family and then-boyfriend when I moved to NYC. I didn’t tell anyone else about it. Even now, Noisiest Passenger is not something I tell everyone about, though by no means is it a secret. To my knowledge, the only people who know me in real life and actively read my blog are my parents, a few friends, TBID, and TBID’s mom. The other readers are strangers who are almost all good looking and bright.
As much as I love writing and have always hoped to have at least one book on a library shelf, I didn’t originally think about how blogging could bring me closer to my goal of being a writer or at least, sharpen my writing skills. I just wanted my loved ones to feel like they still knew what was going on in my life. Blogging was a great way to keep those long-distance phone calls focused.
Noisiest Passenger still hasn’t taken off the way I’d like. I’d love more readers and more comments, though I know all about being a lurker - I could start a blog called Tales of a Social Media Wallflower or The Perks of Being a Lurker. Most of all, I’d love to get more opportunities through my blog to write elsewhere. So far, I’ve had two publications find me through my humble little space online without me having to stalk them. I felt like I’d won the lottery.
Here’s a question from Jess:
In earlier days of this blog, I used to get nasty little comments from a former co-worker/friend. Many were “anonymous,” though I knew better. From time to time, I’d get random negativity from strangers, too. Stuff about how what I said was pointless, mean, or high-falutin’.
And I was like, “Duh.”
That’s the thing about being as close to real on the Internet as you can without losing all your friends, alienating your family, and getting canned. Sometimes people disagree with you.
The ones who took a minute - or in some cases, 10 minutes - to tell me how I was an awful teacher, how I’m wasting my talent, and my favorite, how I love the smell of my own farts, made my day. Mae West said she’d rather be looked over than overlooked. It’s true. Even by cranky people with grudges and no acquaintance with spell-check.
Here’s a question from Cheryl:
The first time I visited NYC, my dad gave me a bright orange whistle on this scrunchy plastic wristband. It was supposed to ward off child molesters and other lowlife scum. Instead, it screamed, “I’m a tourist, and my dad’s insane!” Actually, maybe I’m confusing that trip at 12 with the time we went camping, and there were mountain lions nearby. Maybe the whistle’s okay in that situation.
Here’s a question from Angela:
I get questions from readers a few times a week, and I’m always delighted. I pull a total Sally Field: “You trust me! You really trust me!” I’ve been slow to respond in the middle of this blog construction, but I’m happy to answer anything and eventually, post that answer here. Full-service, baby. Let me know if you’d like one of those air fresheners that looks like a tree.
Here’s a question from Baileigh:
I’ve been remiss about replying to comments. Thanks to everyone who leaves them. I love feedback, reactions, and questions. I don’t write, because there’s a metaphorical fire in me or something. I do it, because I like to share ideas with other people. You’re the reason I’m still blogging - hooray!
Because I get emails with questions from time to time, and no question is stupid or individual - with the exception of “I like your blog. Could you send me some pics of your bare feet?” - I’ll be posting answers to questions right on the blog from now on.
Here’s a question I got from a fellow Amanda back in December:
