I ran into The Coffee Shop Girl on New Year's Eve. She was with her best friend, who was visiting from out of town.

It's Sunday, so as usual, my adorable upstairs neighbor, Jasmin, came down to hang out with me while a realtor showed our building to some potential buyers. We made fun of the realtor when he wasn't looking, and when he took the buyers downstairs to see the basement, we joked about locking the door behind them. Today wasn’t as busy as last week, and after only a few appointments, he was gone.

Pauline never made it to the Paris train station. She missed her train, or skipped her train, or for whatever reason didn't get off the train as I stood there waiting and watching. I finally got hold of her after trying a dozen times to dial her Dutch cell phone from a Paris pay phone and charging it to my American calling card. Nope, she wasn't coming—but she'd still be in Amsterdam when I arrive, so let's meet up then and there, okay? Okay.

I can now officially add the night train from Rome to Paris to my list of things that were cool to do, but don't ever want to do again. Like LSD. You know, you're thinking, “This is cool—an adventure—something new and different"—but at the same time there's a part of you that just wants the whole thing to be over.

Ciao Manhattan —and ciao Brooklyn too. Leaving now to catch a plane and live La Dolce Vita in Florence. Hey Jas, will you please water my plants when you get a chance? I know how you hate to see them suffer.

The realtor came to show my building today, so I hung out with my upstairs neighbor, Jasmin, the way we usually do when he comes. I noticed Jasmin had a bass guitar resting on her couch. I asked her about it, and she said she’s going to start learning how to play.

As I was walking home recently, I passed by the coffee shop I visit almost daily. It was still open, and I saw that my two favorite waitresses were working. I stayed until they closed and asked one of them to join me for a drink. She agreed and suggested a place she liked that served beers in Styrofoam cups.

I used to carry a camera with me everywhere I went. Anytime I took a vacation, I would eagerly hold it, searching for things to photograph—images that would capture the time, place, spirit, and essence. Over time, my focus shifted: I stopped taking photos of my trips and started having trips about my photos.

Brian wants to come to Italy with me. And when I finish my job, he suggests we take a train to Paris and stay with his ex-girlfriend.

Her name was Ester and I met her on the last day of my first trip to Amsterdam when I was out looking for a memorable last night. I had been to half a dozen bars before I finally wandered into the crappy dive at the northern edge of the Red Light District.

Here's what happened to me between yesterday and this morning.

I met Lexy at Union Pool about 9 PM on Friday. We had a few drinks, took some photobooth pictures, and then left to find somewhere less crowded. She took me to a secret underground location — a bar in the basement of a Chinese restaurant where there were a bunch of drunks celebrating an even drunker girl's birthday.

I went to an art opening tonight. Two girls were talking to me. I couldn't hear them. I could see them laughing. I knew one girl, but not the other. They are roommates, and they said they wanted me to make a painting for their apartment. I don't want to.

I went to a RISD event last night. Cheap drinks and free food. But it was otherwise pretty boring, so Brian and I snuck into a back room where an all-girl band from Ireland was playing.

Raymi was visiting, but she’s gone. She was gone before she left, but now she is gone, gone.

Roll over Beethoven and tell Tchaikovsky the news— Raymi's in town and ready to kick some karaoke ass!

I got out of bed, cleaned the apartment a little bit, went for breakfast, and then headed to Bedford Avenue to stop by the bookstore where my friend Jonny works. Jonny and I had been trying to make plans to hang out, but so far had only managed to play several rounds of phone tag. I figured it would be easier to stop in to see him at work, say hi, and make plans from there.

There is a McDonald's near the art supply store, so I went in—but walked right out again. McDonald's in New York City at lunchtime is fucking anarchy!

I came home last night to find a big "For Sale" sign on my building. My landlord sent me a letter a few weeks ago telling me he was selling the building, but I've been in denial about it.

Last night, I went out with the girl who is curating a group art show that I’ll be in. We met up with a couple of her friends. My name is Jamie, and her name is Jaime, which made for a confusing night—but whatever.