Holding: Nearly two hundred applications in over a dozen cities yielded three whole interviews. The first one—a district court judge in Manhattan. Sure, Judge Cortland wasn’t on a court of appeals, but he was in New York. A huge plus. When asked the paradigmatic question, “Do you have anything to add?” Raj responded, “Yes, I’m a hypochondriac.” Not the right answer. The second go-round involved Chicago and too much nervous talk about the wind. No dice.

Three’s the charm! Sheila Raj landed an offer from the Honorable Helga Friedman, court of appeals judge in Philadelphia, President Gerald Ford appointee, first woman ever to sit on a federal court of appeals and former Penn Law professor. In sum, a Legal Goddess.

I accepted on the spot.

I knew I’d miss my life in New York, but spending one short year in Philadelphia was going to make my career. Heck, it’d probably make my life.

The city of brotherly love beckoned!

“Sheels, it’s adorable! It’s huge! Check out the gorgeous floors and ohmyGod—you get tons of natural light!” my sister, Puja, squealed as we entered my new apartment on Twelfth Street between Spruce and Pine, smack in the middle of the “gayborhood.” Like South Beach and Chelsea, the gay mafia had transformed this neighborhood from filthy to fabulous in a matter of two years. And I was right in the middle of it all. Darling café to the left, independent bookstore straight ahead, French bistro to the right. As for my apartment, it felt like a palace compared to my place in New York. “Eight hundred fifty square feet of pure prewar charm!” That’s what the ad said in the Philadelphia Inquirer and it was true. The most charming part? Eight hundred fifty bucks a month! For that, you’d be lucky to get bedbugs and a bathroom share in Brooklyn.

“Yeah, Sheila, this is even better than you described. For once I don’t think you exaggerated,” Sanjay said, playfully squeezing my shoulder. Sanjay and I had been dating for about two years. He was a radiology resident in Reston, Virginia, my hometown. I’d known him since I was about three minutes old, as our parents had been best friends since their medical school days in India. Any semblance of incest had been avoided thanks to the fact that Sanjay was four years older than me and had failed to acknowledge my existence until a few years earlier, when we’d seen each other at Thanksgiving. A girl couldn’t have asked for a more dependable or decent man. And shy of landing the lead in a Bollywood film, our mothers couldn’t have been happier.

“You know, you guys, I think I may never leave Philly,” I said, taking in my palace. “You can actually live like a normal person rather than a starving bag lady.”