And that was a year.
You’ve heard the story before. Midwestern girl moves to the big, bad city with only a suitcase and a dream. And yes, this is more or less how I arrived in New York, like Madonna so many years before me, my essentials packed to fit airline requirements. But a dream? Not so much.
Standing in Hoboken, NJ as a teenager, Frank Sinatra just wanted to be a part of it in old New York. Listening to his records (okay, CDs) in my bedroom as a child, I guess I had to agree with him.
But a part of what, exactly? What did I move here for, what exactly did I think I would become a part of?
Nothing in particular. There was nothing specific for me to pursue in New York, just that nagging feeling as I lay in my Minneapolis bedroom that I could not stay, that the four years I spent away, in different states and countries, had not been enough. No, it was time to get moving again, time to pack my suitcases and kiss my mother goodbye at the airport, squeezing her tight and smelling her perfume again before watching her taillights dissolve into a sea of other cars, undoubtedly driven by mothers watching their own little birds fly away.
Flying over Minneapolis, I always look for the familiar. My former city is burned in my brain. There is David’s house. There is Lake Calhoun. Maybe I’ll spot my grade school or a park where I played softball as a kid. I imagine that every tiny car that inches along below me holds my friends and family , rushing about their lives unaware that I am watching from above.
Flying over New York for the first time as a New Yorker, everything was lost in the darkness, the entire city relegated to a twinkling light below, a city made of glitter, spilling out in all directions. Which light represented my new home, where did I belong down there?
David was there when I stepped into baggage claim, dressed in work clothes and sweating as profusely as I was in the hot Indian Summer air. The apartment door opened into an empty room. It was bare, empty, just slightly yellowed walls and a bed that David had assembled himself. It was what most people would describe as “sad” or even “disgusting,” but it was ours. Ours for an entire year, to do with whatever we pleased.
We didn’t do much.
I would say now that the year flew by, but of course it did not. It crawled and it tripped and it occasionally fell down a flight of stairs.
The lease expires in two weeks, and David and I go our separate ways, he to Woodside, I to homelessness and general vagabondry until October. What will it mean to leave this place, to lock the door and not return, to walk away from my first home as an adult?
I know that I will remember this year. I will tuck it away and keep it in a special place, all of it. Laying in bed and listening to the crazy man in the next building threaten to call the cops on the pigeons. Waking up on Saturdays and getting bagels and coffee from the bakery. Hosting my first Thanksgiving for five in a room meant for one. Finding that huge cockroach in the bathroom and leaving the dead body for David to dispose of. Living a big life in a small space.
I still don’t know what it all means, why Frank or I longed to be here, why thousands arrive here everyday. I don’t know where I’m going to end up in a month, whether I’ll be on a friend’s couch or a new apartment. But I’m a part of it.
great post, I cannot it has already been a year. Time fly when you have the worst job ever!! happy year anniversary in NYC!
Like you listen to Neutral Milk Hotel! What's happened to you? Bright Eyes, NMH, New York city, you're totally going Emo on us, aren't you?
Yeah, I'm following in your proud footsteps. If I lived at home I'd be sitting in the basement listening to Pink Floyd and sleeping until 2 pm, just like you used to do.