Could I be a cowboy?

Manhattan is a wild frontier. But it isn't the frontier. I don't know if the wild, endless wide-open-space ever really existed in the way we fantasize, but I do know that Western stories and movies are my favorite excuse to be ridiculous, outdoorsy, and cowboy-romantic. I'm reading a collection of western stories and I can't believe how absorbed I've become:

"That's a lot of horse," a man in a white apron said. "It takes a man to ride a stallion."

"I ride him," I said, and walked past them into the bar. The man in the white apron followed me. "I drink tequila," I said.

So then I started thinking. Could I be a cowboy?

I like the wide open plains (That's Haiti and one tough cowgirl, Lizzie.)

I'll eat camp food and get dirty (as long as Herman B Wells is along for the ride).

I enjoy a ride (especially when you get a great local story from a personal Haitian historian).

I can wear a hat.

Nah, I think I'll leave it up to the (dirty, hot, swanky) experts.