New York Tip #4: Never Enter An Empty Subway Car

Our city is beautiful during “Golden Hour.” At the conclusion of a busy day, rays of sunlight dance amongst the skyscrapers, freckling the sidewalks with honey-colored light. I watched this phenomenon from a subway platform in Woodside, Queens. My glass world glowed.

Click, click, click.

The 7 train was rounding a bend into the 52 Street Station, full of people commuting every which way. In Queens the majority of subway rails are located above ground on raised platforms. As one might imagine, this has extreme pros and cons—such as cell service and snow.

I spotted an empty-ish car and quickly began waking toward it. In summer, I had already learned that an unpopulated section of the train typically means one of two things: Either the AC isn’t working and you will sweat until you can’t see straight, or there is a very unpleasant smell waiting to attack your gag reflexes. But it was currently the dead of winter, so I took my chances.

Upon entering the subway car, I spotted about six other people. One was an intoxicated man who was mumbling to himself. This is a sad, yet common occurrence. But nothing smelled and no one was getting murdered, so I happily plopped into a seat.

But oh, how innocent I was.
“La de mo. Shit. To fippp. Oo.”

As the train began to move, I realized the disturbed man in question was becoming quite vocal. He stood and wobbled to one remote corner of the train, then continued speaking nonsense as we rolled into the next station. When the train began moving again, he loosened his belt. I looked away and tried to catch eyes with the older woman sitting across from me, but she was doing a crossword puzzle. The man slouched to my left was lost in thought, and everyone else was on the opposite end of the car.

I stared at my fingernails and tried to appear as blasé as possible.
Ah, how interesting… my nails.
The man began taking his clothes off.
My nails! They are… well, they are my nails.
The man is wearing no pants.
Maybe I should stop biting my nails?
The man is making strange noises...

Curiosity got the best of me, and I peeked back over at the belt-less man whose pants were now down to his ankles. But his posture is what stood out to me the most—why was he crouching, his bum hovering over the orange plastic seat?

No.
No, no, NO.
That man was pooping on the subway.
That man was pooping on the subway! 

“Er, espa. Din deeen!!”

And with that loud statement, I became a witness to one of the more grotesque things a human can do in an enclosed public space.

“Ewww,” I said audibly, moving to the farthest corner of the train along with the silent but annoyed crossword woman. Also please note: When one defecates on a moving train, one's waste does not remain in a singular location.

There was literally sh*t sliding all over the place.  

At this point, we were arriving at the next station—my station, praise Jesus—so I pulled a wool scarf over my mouth and held my breath. A part of me felt terrible for the overly intoxicated human; the other part felt queasy. I closed my eyes as a strong stench crept toward us.

Then the doors suddenly opened and the six of us fled Poop Train. But before leaving the scene, I saw one couple enter the now deserted car, grabbing those highly-coveted empty seats. I didn’t have time to warn them—and that is a deep regret of mine.

But the train doors closed, sealing their smelly fates. And unfortunately for them, this was the last stop before Manhattan so they would be locked in Poop Train for a longer period of time than your average subway ride. 

Friends, I tell you this story for a reason: 
Whether it’s winter,
or summer...
Whether it's rush hour,
or quiet...
Never enter an empty subway car.
You could get pooped on.

And now you know! 

5 Subway Tips for Travelers:

• Consider getting a paper map of the subway system before your trip. While cell phones are helpful, you will loose service underground for periods of time. Here’s my map recommendation.

• New Yorkers might always be “on the go,” but I guarantee you can find someone to assist you—don’t be afraid to ask for directions!

• New York rush hour is from approximately 7am - 9am and 4pm - 6pm. The subways will be more packed than usual during these times.

• If you’re traveling alone or have sensitivities to sounds, consider getting some noise canceling headphones. It will make for a much more peaceful journey! Here’s what I pop in my ears while commuting. There’s tons of options out there.

• Quick subway etiquette:

  • Let people off the train before trying to enter the train car.

  • Do not block the subway doors—move into the middle of the subway car when possible.

  • The left side of the escalator is for walking, and the right side of the escalator is for standing. Don’t block the lefthand side (or someone might snap at you—perhaps, me!).

Never Change, Just Always

A wave of humidity settled over New York this summer, and it seemed to shake everything up.

A friend of mine asked me six months ago, “Are you dying to be engaged?” I told her that yes; I was ready to marry Ryan. Something about last August solidified our relationship and that deep assurance bled into fall. By Christmas, I knew without a doubt that I'd selected my partner in crime. It was an oddly undeniable feeling.

But was I dying to be engaged? No, not entirely. I rarely crave modifications in The Big Three: housing, significant others, and jobs. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy a little switch up. I just don’t ever pine for change—mostly because it has always woken up, and smacked me in the face.

I was very content with life for the last year and that’s how I knew change was on the hunt, sniffing around for an ideal time to appear. I probably created the catalyst by taking a two-week trip; that deviation from the norm seemed to wake the beast. February was for planning, March was for Scotland, and April was for Iceland. Then I was in a best friend’s wedding, I gleefully got engaged, I moved to Brooklyn, babies were born, sisters lost their jobs, and Ryan’s eye decided it no longer wanted to function.

This is why one should not crave change. It’s my opinion change will find you.

(I’m sitting in a coffee shop typing this, and I feel very safe in front of my computer with a cup of caffeine seeping into my blood stream. The wheels are starting to turn in my dusty Sunday morning brain. I could sit here forever, the breeze blowing in from an open window while Bob Dylan plays at a low volume…  

Ah, but I couldn’t.
I take back everything I just told you.
I’m already bored and I've had too much coffee.
Plus, I’d be terribly irritable if the world didn’t keep spinning madly round.)

Maybe I’d like to rephrase if you’d allow me that, dear reader?

I adore change just as I adore being content in certain seasons. My anxiety was speaking out, and she is a much worse monster than change. She is the evil queen of stagnant motions. She gets her cheap thrills from repetition and fear. She doesn’t like success because it’s too much of a gamble, and her favorite pastime is chewing brains into dull submission.  

No, no we shall not feed that beast.
It's true; this has been a terrible summer—isolating and humid.  
But just like every season, it is not infinite.

So I’ll sit
And I’ll wait.
And then I’ll plan out the next steps.

Where shall Ryan and I travel? What should I write next? Will I finally do my laundry today? Will Ryan’s fourth eye surgery actually work? I don’t know the answers to these questions.

This I do know: With one hundred percent certainty, many of our delicately constructed plans will be altered. But the joke’s on life—because we don’t know what we want, either.

We just hope to keep progressing forward.
And, luckily, we have the ability to do that. 

“Would you like an adventure now, or would like to have your tea first?”

— J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

The Waiting Game

I'm a writer without a pen. 

There's lots of chaos happening around me at the moment. I'm perched in a random chair near a highly coveted outlet in the Barnes & Noble on 86th Street. A duo of Upper East children are screaming for "more cookies!" to their nanny, who try as she might, cannot keep them at bay. Someone in a tennis skirt just tripped in the Fiction section, and a man is talking loudly on his cell phone while searching through the car lovers' magazines.

 I have 18 unanswered texts, 36 new emails, 2 missed calls, and a handful of Slack notifications. There's a gunman in a movie theater in Germany. Trump's ex-campaign manager is speaking out! Someone nearby is coughing in the most disturbing way. 

Ryan sends me a text.
"Ok I'm next. I love you, see you in a bit."  

During book club one night prior, my typically social fiancé didn't feel inclined to participate. I found this odd considering he was hosting the event and seemed to enjoy our novel, though I didn't press. Long day, work problems, city living stress—it could have been a cocktail of frustrations.  

But as people trickled out of his apartment, I discovered that Ryan's lifelong annoyance was behind his sudden shift in mood. He could no longer see out of a portion of his right eye, and we needed to go to emergency room. Immediately. He packed a Amaretto Sour to-go, while I hailed the Uber. 

Hours later we learned what we already expected: There was a tear in his retina and if it completely detached he would be blind in one eye. Surgery was needed as soon as possible. 

"Love you, too. Cya in a few!" I texted him and ignored everything else on my phone. The woman with the perpetual cough now popped her dentures in and out. Time to move.

As I collect my scattered belongings, my mind races in circles like a Ferris wheel of doom: Two of my close friends just got laid off. I'm supposed to move out of my apartment Sunday, and I haven't packed a thing. In fact, I may have laundry at the cleaners? My best friend has a doctor digging around in his eyeball. Our next book club novel (“The Count of Monte Cristo,” unabridged) is so dense that it won’t fit in my purse and, therefore, I cannot purchase it today.

Oddly enough, that last problem sends me over the edge.
I have no book!
I have no pen.  

I tear up as I place “Monte Cristo” back on the shelf.
Idle hands, idle mind.
Ah, let’s walk. 

Now I'm on the street, the first breath of summer caressing the back of my neck. It's not too humid today so I meander and wait for the call to come fetch Ryan from the grips of localized anesthesia.  

Walking around New York has always given me a sense of peace. The buzzing of our brick and metal world is revitalizing to an extrovert who doesn't want to communicate, yet desperately needs to steal other's energy. As I pace the streets, I rejoice in the fact that I can see with my two healthy eyes. The wind picks up. It might rain; the smell of a thunderstorm is lingering. I take it all in.  

I pass an orchid shop on 80th Street, which makes me think of Ryan. He'd sent me a text earlier in the day saying he was, "strolling down Lexington looking at the flowers." I thought it was an odd message at the time—but now I wondered: Was he worried that he’d never again be able to see a flower’s bright petals?

This thought made me sad so I kept walking, this time thanking God we have two eyes instead of one. You wouldn't have a lot of chances as a Cyclops. 

And then it happens.
I find a pen.

It's dirty because it’s been dropped on the sidewalk, but this fact has never bothered me. I discover lovely garbage on the street all the time—candleholders, ancient books, etc.—and sometimes they come home with me. So without much thought, I reach down and scoop up my forgotten friend. Waves of anxiety seem to physically lift off my overactive brain. 

Now, I can write everything down. 

[Editor’s Note: After all this nonsense, Ryan wakes up from surgery and tells me there was a pen in his bag the whole time—oy! He goes back under the knife today. Thank you again for everyone’s prayers and support.]

New York City Tip #2: Don’t Get Lost in Acquaintances

The music was incredibly loud; you could feel the bass thumping in your stomach, churning all those gin and tonics into a limey soup. 

A hundred or so people were smashed into a downstairs bar in the Lower East Side on some steamy Saturday night, drinks in hand. Arms in the air.
Sweaty, salty, dancing.

The girl next to me had smeared her eye makeup and looked like a blitzed vampire. Wait… Was that who’d I’d come to the bar with? Eh, maybe. Everyone was wearing the same costume. Black jeans, black boots, an array of leather and lipstick.

“Make you put yo hands up, put yo, put yo hands up.”

The drinks were overpriced, but some guy I didn’t know was buying. Another one, he asks. Sure, why not? You can’t do this scene without at least three cocktails, I tell him with a grin. But he’s not listening because he’s just trying to sleep with my friend. And I don’t really care because I’m out of cash.

“Hell yeah, make you put yo hands up.
Make you put yo hands up, put yo put yo hands up.”

The group I was with had danced hard for over an hour, laughing and jumping around the center of a low-lit dungeon. But the initial fun was dissipating as 3AM approached. So I decided to voyeuristically watch the Drink Buyer make moves on the gal I suddenly realized was not my friend, but actually someone I despised.

Now this acquaintance’s job required her to be stunning, and she certainly turned heads. But after a few nights out together, I realized she was self-centered—or, perhaps just dull because conversation perpetually lagged. And in this drunken, insecure state she suddenly repulsed me. Leaning, leaning, tripping, hiccupping. Her eyes were bloodshot as she asked me to fix her hair.

Come with me to the bathroom, she said grasping the air for my hand.

As she pulled me, a relative stranger, through dark corridors in search of a toilet to puke in, I oddly thought of my father. He’d once made the off-hand comment while we were watching an old black and white film that he felt bad for truly beautiful people who age poorly. I can’t recall who he was speaking about, but his words suddenly rang true. I imagined this fragile creature incapable of coping with the future—and maybe also the present—living with only the hope of being validated.

I told my drunken counterpart it was time to go home as she stumbled out of a graffiti-covered stall. She protested, citing her connection with the Drink Buyer. I lied and told her he’d left the bar—they’d already exchanged numbers, so she could figure it out tomorrow over coffee, Advil, or whatever the hell self-proclaimed “fashionistas” eat for brunch.

But he liked my dress! She was whining as I walked her upstairs, trying not to smell her acidic breath. Of course he liked your dress; everyone loved your dress. You looked fabulous tonight. Now we’re getting you a car.

She admitted she was tired, and that maybe it was time to go home as I tried to both hold her up and flag down a yellow cab. Once the driver confirmed my acquaintance’s address, her head bobbed toward blissful blackout.

I shut the car door and never saw her again.
But that was fine, for both parities.

Some people make you better, some people make you worse, and some people just distract from the glorious things you are about to discover.

For me? I want to walk with people who tell good stories.
Split meals with individuals who make me think.
Dance with friends who appreciate the same songs.
Laugh until my sides hurt!

So I’ve learned to swiftly cut my losses—and move on.

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New York City Tip #1: Become a Regular Somewhere

The best time to experience the gentle side of Lower Manhattan is most certainly on a Monday afternoon.

While you walk east or west along the quiet streets of the Villages, you will notice a leisurely communal pace. On 7th Street, the hat shop owner is chatting with the barber on her front stoop. The usual European suspects hang outside of an Italian restaurant, smoking, laughing.  An old Ukrainian store, that’s only open till 4 p.m., is at its busiest hour: The matriarch of the business can barely stand up, but she knows each customer by name and greets them in her native tongue. They all buy mason jars of honey from upstate.

This is New York.

But observe these rituals closely because they are a privilege to witness. Students are at school, commuters have made it to their destinations, and the nine-to-five toil has commenced. Our streets are calm; take it in.

Weekdays out of the office often remind me of the year I spent in retail. Saturdays were slammed with patrons coming from or headed to brunch—everything revolves around brunch—and two consecutive days off was an out-of-the-question request. So I began to cherish my random afternoons, spent at a bagel place off the 30th Ave subway stop in Queens.

“How’s your mo-ther,” a man with an Italian accent asked me. I was paying for an everything bagel the size of my face, drenched in bacon n’ chive cream cheese. It was my third week living in New York, and every time I walked into this busy breakfast restaurant, Anthony asked me the same thing.

Why? Because my mother has a way with people.

During my second week living in New York, Toney and Bob decided to drive up from Virginia. Before their arrival, my room consisted of six garbage bags full of unfolded clothes and a sleeping bag that I'd slept on top of because it was so damn hot. But not anymore! The parents were here with my bed, an AC unit, and tons of questions.

“Is it safe?” Mom wanted to know.
“How far away is your school?”
“Do you like your neighborhood?”

What they were really asking was...
 “ARE YOU POSITIVE YOU WANT TO DO THIS?”

To reassure my excited/terrified parents, I took them to a “hand-rolled, water-boiled” bagel shop my roommate had suggested. Alas, we walked in and were immediately accosted by an unfamiliar world.

“Toasted, scooped, with lox!”
“Just a nosh. Mini bagel today, thanks.”
“Whole-grain everything with Nova!”
Whip, whoosh, crinkle.

The three of us silently took in the situation with wide, worrisome eyes. Workers behind the counter were barking out orders, moving golden disks of bread through a well-established assembly line of toasters and cream cheese.  

I decided to try my best.
“Uh, I’ll do an everything bagel, with sun dried tomato.
Er… uh, toasted?”
Whip, whoosh, crinkle. 

Embarrassingly enough, I realized my parents and I had all placed the exact same order in equally mystified tones.
Whip, whoosh, crinkle.

“Ah hello, miss. To stay or to go?” the manager asked my mother. He seemed to take his time with us, perhaps because we were three unfamiliar, slightly anxious faces.

I’m not entirely sure what happened next, but I do know my mother tends to talk incessantly when she’s nervous. Maybe it was because I was moving to New York, or perhaps she was stressed from the long, migraine-inducing car trip. Whatever the reason, this is what I heard from across the room:

“Ma BABY is moving to New Yaaark, Anthony!” The man starts laughing, and Mom motions for me to come back to the counter. “We’re from Virginia! But Astoria seems nice. Britney, come back over here!”

I roll my eyes, like an angsty 14-year-old. My mother could make friends with a parked car.

“She’s ma OLDEST,” Mom says leaning across the counter, Southern accent and all. The line has died down so there’s no one directly behind her. Meanwhile, an internal panic has caused my legs to awkwardly move toward the conversation, but paralyzed my face in a fretful expression. (I’m sure I looked something like this pug being pushed down a slide.)

“Now, you watch ova her,” Mom said, pointing a finger at Anthony.

And by golly, that Bagel Man watched over me until he was hired at a different franchise. He would ask about my mother, about school, and friends. One time, he even scolded me for wearing high heels. “What would you mo-ther say!? It attracts atten-tion.”

But some days Anthony was the only person I would talk to before 5 p.m. Like many who have uprooted to this city, I knew not a soul upon my quixotic arrival. And when you live in a sea of aspiring, ambitious go-getters, you must learn to enjoy those peaceful Monday afternoons—sometimes by yourself, with just the company of the city and its characters.

I’ll admit it. My mother was on to something.

Smile at neighbors
Know your Super.
Be “a regular” somewhere.
And revel in the quirks of our home.

It will make you feel human, especially when you’re alone. 

---

“Many among the regulars of a third place are like Emerson’s “commended stranger” who represents humanity anew, who offers a new mirror in which to view ourselves, and who thus breathes life into our conversation. ”

— Ray Oldenburg

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10 Things I Wish I'd Know Before Moving to New York City

When I moved to New York City in the summer of 2010, there were a great many things I didn’t know about the world, like the expression “served up” or the benefits of renter’s insurance. I was fresh from college and a novice to anything remotely “adult,” ranging from high society social faux pas to basic financial awareness.

It was lucky—I suppose—that when my feet first touched this city’s bustling pavement, I landed in the safe arms of Astoria, Queens. This neighborhood held no pretention, full of old Mediterranean immigrants, middle-aged Latino families, and pockets of fresh-faced actors. Astoria was one of those places with a working blue-collar community that seemed satisfied belonging to the ever-shrinking middle class. It was custom to see the wives of firefighters shopping at the butcher’s, young nurses exiting the train, and plumbing trucks parked along the sidewalk.

My neighbor was an old Greek man who had lived in the same home since first arriving in New York. He would always ask about my roommate, Anna, or offer up grapes from his garden. Down the street from him was a loony clown with a terrifying, colorful van full of props and dead-eyed dolls. He had a yippy dog that followed him everywhere, and cameras posted outside of his apartment. (He was easily the most unsettling part of my four-year stay in Astoria.)

My landlords were an Italian couple, she a New York native and he an Italian immigrant who barely spoke English. Her northern accent was unbelievable to my delicate southern ears—she sounded like the caricature of a mobster’s wife—but Laura was kind and protective of our little home. Two of their grown children lived in my three-story walkup, a quiet building located about 15 minutes from the N train’s 30th Avenue stop.

You learn quickly when you are far from the comforts of normalcy. I would also argue that living in any large city considerably speeds up the process of finding your bearings.  You sink or you swim. You “make it”—or you don’t.

All of this to say, throughout the next several months I plan to write about the 10 things I wish I’d know before moving to the tiny universe that is New York City. 

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Tip #1: Become a Regular Somewhere 
Tip #2: Don't Get Lost in Acquaintances
Tip #3: Learn to Live Seasonally
Tip #4: Never Enter an Empty Subway
Tip #5: Some Things Are Worth Paying For
Tip #6: Coming soon...

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I found this (ridiculous) video when I was cleaning out my computer, and it inspired this series. There are so many things I wish someone would have told me—but then again, maybe that would have ruined the story. 

The First Five Years

Well there she is.

That’s me. There are a few less wrinkles under her eyes, and a few more pounds in her stomach. She’s sitting on a bus, looking out the smudged window as highway lights whiz by in a pattern. They are perfectly spaced apart.

You might notice that this young girl is biting her lower lip. (If butterflies truly flew around our stomachs, she would have been vomiting their colorful wings into a McDonald’s bag at her feet.)

Ah, yes. This little thing possesses all the symptoms of a novice city dweller. And while our protagonist thinks she is special, countless others have carried her same ambitions, right down to the dream job and ideal neighborhood. It is important to remember that you are not celebrated when you move to New York. Instead, you must learn to celebrate that your life transpires in the epicenter of many great things. There is a make-or-break difference between the two mentalities.

Then she sees it—the city! Oh the stars in her eyes as the romanticized version of New York waves from a distance. “Come one, come all!” it twinkles with promise. She’s flying down the Jersey Turnpike now, rushing toward her first love, that first obsession.

Your inaugural year in New York is a tough one. It doesn’t matter who you are or what your title was before—when you arrive here, you are Piece of Sh*t #273496. The customs will be foreign; the apartments will be small. You will break many shoes. You might see someone pee themselves in public... but, please don’t stare. That is entirely against the rules.

This leads me to your next adaptation: You will transform your body when you move here. First, you’ll shop for a new face. No more bight eyes and wide smiles. You will learn to walk the city streets with a blasé demeanor. Of course that old self lurks just under the surface, but to the public, you’re happily anonymous. Trust the narrator; this is truly for your own safety.

Next, depending on your diet, salary, or possible newfound drug addiction, your weight will change. Some waists expand via midnight bodega runs, while others walk off the beer from college. Our girl here? She’ll lose 8 pounds, mostly because she’ll consume PB&Js, potatoes, and hardboiled eggs for about a year.

Then you’ll buy a leather jacket, or skinny(er) jeans. Next? A knee-length down coat for the frigid months. Perhaps you’ll get a nose ring on St. Marks, or pick up a Hookah habit. You might even scribble on another tattoo over in Alphabet City. Either way, everything about you will begin to morph until you’re a blurry version of a past self.

After a few months of supreme loneliness, you'll start to meet magical human beings. Some will only be exciting for a time, while others will become your New York soul mates: They are those blessed people who moved to the city for the same reasons you did: To do! To create. To live, and taste, and touch all the facets of life. They’ll also experience similar hardships, which will eventually bond you into a brother and sisterhood few understand. As the years go by, you will steal their energy, and they yours, in a symbiotic relationship that keeps this city running.

The First Year

I should warn you, friends will come and friends will go. Tom Wolfe said, “one belongs to New York instantly; one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years,” which is completely agreeable. New York welcomes anyone, even the droves of rats and roaches. But not all will adore this city. Others will eventually search for a change of pace—a new adventure, if you will.

It’s OK.
Move on.
Love, too, will come and quickly depart.
The real stuff sticks around or you adapt with it.

But what a whirlwind that first year will be! The highs are high, and the lows are low, my friend. Never will the lights of a summer night sparkle more as you traipse down a city street at 3AM. You will dance in dark Lower East Side bars, and taste what you believe to be “exotic” foods, like huevos rancheros and sashimi.

One 12-hour night could consist of an elegant ballet and a bar crawl through the West Village. Then you might—because we’ve been speaking in the hypothetical— sneak seven people into a club on Houston by finding the backdoor. Afterwards, you’ll hop into an unmarked vehicle consisting of a driver and his bodyguard. (You will question this, but not be overly concerned.) You and your friends will then scream Katy Perry lyrics out the window until you arrive at a random bar in South Street Seaport for one last drink before dawn.

Anything can happen!
And oh, it does.

You’ll find a coffee shop, a bagel place, and a favorite cocktail joint. Every inch of the city is yours—yes, claim it—and every moment you’re not attempting to make a buck, you must feverishly explore it. Why? Because the city, and life, are not always as pleasant as a summer evening out.

Look at our protagonist now.

She’s sitting on the fire escape of a stranger’s apartment, peering down the back alley of an old tenement building. The owner is charging $1,650/month for a cramped but trendy studio—and that’s a deal. She wonders who was stuffed in this dwelling during the 1890s. Did they have the same feelings of both determination and submission in the shadow of this city’s lights?

Hum, probably.

The party continues. She’s inspecting everything with a quizzical eye. “What are you drinking? What part of town is that?” It’s all new, and the pulsating buzz of constant human interaction will happily distract her from that occasional pang of loneliness.

In that first year you will also feel a wide spectrum of emotions as you experience a lack of funds. You will be hungry. You will see others be very hungry as they beg for coins on dirty stoops. Some days a heaviness sets in. You will feel surrounded by a tangible sorrow that your headphones and sunglasses cannot block out.

One night, you might lose it. The temperature will either be suffocating or glacial, as mental breakdowns often occur during extreme weather—which New York claims in abundance.

Something small will set you off. And then you’ll realize that you hate your job, or that you’re not accomplishing those “short-term goals” fast enough. You’ll wonder why your apartment has no dishwasher. Didn’t you move here to be a writer? Why is ANOTHER car alarm going off!? TURN OFF YOUR CAR ALARM.

“You’re bad at things you love to do,” a tiny voice inside of you says.

Next, a nasty spiral of thoughts will attack: What are you doing with your life? Is this where you saw yourself after grad school—eating spoonfuls of peanut butter and counting quarters? What a success you’ve become! No… You’re a waste. You are not capable; you are not smart. People won’t remember you because there’s nothing special to recall.

Our protagonist is crying on the couch.
(Note: The couch is not hers. She can not afford one.)

Her face is red and there’s a half-eaten baked potato on a makeshift coffee table. She has forgotten that “many great things” surround her. It’s very hot for September. She is alone.

But our girl will soon learn the roaring, redemptive nature of the city and what it means to faithfully achieve tiny ideas before the big picture presents itself. In fact, most do not realize they must master the skill of blind patience until years two or three...

So let' s jump forward.

That’s me. I am perched on a roof overlooking my city at the crux of summer and fall. There is a childlike joy twisting through friends as wine is poured, our laughter echoing off the nearby buildings.

I spin to view the panorama that is New York City at night. She twinkles, just like she did five years ago when everything was only an idea. Now adventures have been lived—isn’t that a lovely thing to say? We have touched greatness. We who have conquered, and laughed, and cried, and rejoiced in this city are a special type of human being. And in the end, those people, the ones who came here craving gritty adventure, are why my infatuation with New York appears to be unending.

You see, the cadence of New York is beautiful—like an ocean of stories constantly crashing together at multiple points in their complex narratives. There is something intangible that brought me here; a deep yearning that promised every other option would disappoint. I should also note, I do not always adore this city. It can be an anxiety-inducing nightmare that will brutally remind you of your place. But it's what called to me. And I have never been truly disenchanted.

 So I will toil, and prosper, and laugh, and weep until I'm positive this is no longer where I'm meant to be—until another adventure whispers in my ear. 
 
But for now, this is my story, and I like it very much. 

We smile. 
The wind shifts.
More wine is poured.
Now we are dancing on the roof, staring out into the greatness.
And all the highs and lows feel perfectly spaced apart. 

The Other Years

Those Jazzy Days of Summer

The Fashion Girls of 7th Avenue are always easy to spot. They’re skinny little things, with striking angles in strange places. Diet Coke in hand, they wisp down the street. But their faces are a little too sallow, and by the end of the day their chic messy buns often just look… messy. 

I don’t envy them, I thought while consuming Taco Bell from the passenger seat of a rented Tahoe. The Fashion Girl in my line of vision was perched on the sidewalk, struggling with an umbrella that refused to open. We drove on and I silently wished her all the best.

A mash-up of Phantogram and Vallis Alps played as we stuffed our faces with “tacos” and “burritos.” Three guys in the backseat laughed at something seemingly hilarious, while a sudden storm exploded in the night sky. The SUV barreled away from the city, the Poconos our distant destination. 

In my mind, there’s a jazzy song from the 1920s playing all summer long in New York. The cadence of crowds on-the-go fits the high notes of exploding trumpets; our feet always moving to a four-beat rhythm. But once away from the city's addictive pull, everything slows down... 

The next morning I awoke to the smell of bacon rising from the kitchen of our borrowed lake house. My fan hummed as I changed into a bathing suit and shorts—why bother with clothes when it’s that warm? After brushing my teeth, I threw my makeup bag and sundresses into a suitcase, where they would sit for the rest of the weekend.

Ah, freedom. Lashes undone and my hair in a true messy bun, I chowed down on food in the Pennsylvania heat. (And I silently wondered if that Fashion Girl with the pesky umbrella liked being skinny as much as I liked bacon. #BreakfastThoughts) 

For the next three days, I didn’t change out of my swim clothes—that’s the beauty of vacation. Yes, there was a shower at some point. But not even an hour went by post-shampoo before I was back in the lake.

We lounged in giant inner tubes by day, collecting golden freckles or weird sunburns. At night we’d cook sizzling burgers and mash limes for homemade margaritas. If you’d peeked into our cottage, you’d have seen coral tee shirts, scuffed up flip-flops, and several gin drinks lying about. Oh… and also a piñata from Walmart.

It’s in these moments that I sense the comfort of summer.

That familiar feeling, charged with nostalgia and the unexpected, haunts me all year. In my admittedly bias opinion, summer is the most tangible of the seasons. It’s salty, sweaty, and the East Coast humidity seeps into your every pore. 

But something about warm weather makes us more agreeable to anything of the slightest interest. “Yes” to one more drink; “yes” to seeing the sunrise; “yes” to it all.

Coming back from vacation is always slightly depressing—but at least in July when you return to New York, she welcomes you with a warm, dewy hug. Then that jazzy song in my mind starts playing once again, and the city dances, dances, dances…

The Fashion Girls of 7th Ave. tango with the Finance Boys of Park. Manhattanites drum up their nerve, jiving to hotspots in Brooklyn. Wealthy Upper East Siders salsa off to the Hamptons…
And everyone left just keeps dancing.
As fast as they can.

The city dances, dances, dances—with a cocktail in its hand. 

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