Inspired by my roommate, Vogue's I Love New York spot, and the NYT Jerry Seinfeld: So You Think New York Is ‘Dead’ article.
Dear New York,
I moved to you on a whim in May of 2019. It was cold for May, a kind of dreary day actually.
Packed three suitcases full of clothing and random necessities, and hopped on a plane from Atlanta to start my life with you.
Landing in LaGuardia, the airport was packed and the taxi I took to the Lower East Side was jerky. We went over the Williamsburg Bridge as my eyes scanned the skyline of the Upper East Side.
I stepped out of the car on Clinton Street to take a deep breath and the smell of trash filled my nostrils, but god was it wonderful to be here.
My first dinner with you was a slice of margherita pizza from Sauce on the corner of Rivington and Orchard street.
The next day I took your subway to my new office on Wall Street for the first time. People were rushing, tourists were camera dancing, and the homeless were begging. The energy was high and exultant. They all wanted to be here, in your city.
A month in, I moved to the Upper West Side and subleased a place there for a few short weeks before the summer heat of July drove me back down to living in the Lower East Side. I couldn’t endure your forty-five-minute sweaty commute from 110th to Wall Street any longer. I’ll admit it, I don’t think anyone truly enjoys riding the packed subway in the middle of summer for longer than twenty minutes, but we still love you for trying.
In July I had my first New York broker experience as I looked at apartment after apartment. You didn’t make it easy, friend. We looked at five-floor walkup after walkup, hoping to find the perfectly petite two-bedroom apartment in East Village within my price range.
I drank Narragansett Summer Shandy on the rooftops of many Brooklyn apartments, ventured to Coney Island on my own, and got lost in the Fulton Street station. I laughed, I cried, and I bought three pairs of tennis shoes because my slides weren’t cutting it anymore walking your streets.
August came and I was no longer couch surfing at my boyfriend’s place. My roommate and I drove a U-Haul from Atlanta to North Carolina, on to DC, and through Jersey to land in the city. We trekked up, boxes in hand, to our five-floor walkup with the help of four extremely kind movers finishing in under two hours. We were home with you at last.
In September I broke it off with the man I was seeing, dubbing it my first ending to likely many New York relationships. And you greeted me with crisp fall air and the leaves beginning to change.
I saw your skyline a million times, ventured through your neighborhoods, and even tried your street dogs. I ate your bagels from Tompkins, and your dumplings from China Town. And I even had friends visit you to see your beauty and romp around your streets.
In October you showed me romance, and I went on my first date as a single woman in your city. I didn’t fall in love then, but I started to fall even more in love with you.
In November I made friends. We danced, we drank, and we ran around the city only to stumble home at a crisp 5:30 AM. You welcomed me with open arms and brought me people who were just as infectiously joyful to be here as I was, and still am.
In December you danced with me as I dated, and taught me many valuable lessons as I navigated love, loss, and being homesick.
And, when it snowed right after the first of the year, we danced again. In the streets with Bailey’s and coffee down to Washington Square Park and all the way home. It was soft, quiet, and you were beautiful.
You showed me a new coffee spot a few blocks from my apartment, and I became a local loyalist… never again choosing Starbucks over Saltwater.
February came and it was colder than January. I asked you, 'did I make a mistake moving to a city that was a straight high of 23 degrees days and days in a row?' And you answered no. My southern skin was freezing, but my soul felt at home with you.
March bellowed in and the madness began. It was Friday the 13th, and our office sent us to work from home for what looked like two weeks at the time. You were anxious, and we felt it.
In April I left you. I retreated for three months to the south, but I missed you. I was homesick from you this time.
You suffered. You were sick and dying. But you pulled through like you always do.
And in July, I came back and you were warm.
You softly smiled at me as I landed again in LaGuardia. The airport this time was empty and clean. The taxi I took to my apartment in East Village smelled of bleach, and the streets were emptier than they were the year before.
Your people wore masks, but they were still there. Hustling, moving, shopping, and thriving. You weren’t dead, quite alive in fact.
You opened your streets to small businesses and restaurants so they could survive and we could enjoy you.
I tried dating you again, and it was fun. I met so many incredible people, and some boring ones too. I had picnics in your parks, white wine on your rooftops, and movies under the stars. They, through you, introduced me to books, outdoor dining, friends, and small adventures.
You motivated me to wake up at 5 am to watch the sunrise and bike across your Brooklyn Bridge, a moment in time I'll never forget.
At the end of the month, my roommate adopted a dog and our apartment instantly felt warmer. You welcomed her tiny Beagle with the same warm open arms as you did for us.
In August I experienced Long Island for the first time and saw your beaches. It was gorgeous and bright, different from your concrete jungle.
In September you continued to show me love. You made it easy to ease back into a routine and live in a world that is still suffering.
And now, in October, you’re chilly but lovely. The leaves are falling, and the city starts to sleep earlier as the seasons begin to change. People are voting, and you want them to.
There is an ever prominent worry that you’ll get sick again, but my love you will never die.
Your resilient spirit is obvious now more than ever. You’ve proven time and time again that you will survive. And those who love you, know that about you.
As I listen to What Have You Done To My Heart by Andrea and Ervin Litkei, I can’t help but feel my heart smile as I stare out my window on this rainy October day. You’ve left such an imprint on my life, and I don’t think I’ll ever have the heart to leave you again.
Oh New York, what have you done to my heart? I’ll never be the same now that I’ve loved you.
Sincerely,
Me
Comments