The spectacular jib stretched across bookshelves floating high above the crowds, swooping down on unsuspecting contestants awaiting to hear their final fate.
Smiling faces, nervous fingers, and a lot of Starbucks coffee brought the shoot to its climax.
The paris needle marble prize remarkably heavy onthe black table garnered envious looks.
Tears and looks of dismay after critiques gave the audience an involvement that won't be forgotten.
A small reunion, but the feeling of coming home pervaded the store.
After, the party moved to a chi-chi meat market bar where highballs and martinis were a dollar, and men's looks were designed for pick ups.
We all thought everyone was there for the writers. A last chance to chat with those that had bonded during the three day weekend.
Will we keep in touch like we say we will? Or will we go back to our private quiet writing worlds of solitude to finish that which we never completed. Only time will tell.
It was a weekend that will never be repeated.
You always remember the first Survivor.