done alone in new york
Fresh laundry is folded, Simon & Garfunkel is spinning and beef stew is simmering on the stove - 'tis an ideal early October evening. I enjoyed the balmy days of late summer but am relishing in the increasingly crisp air, filled with autumnal promise. I get giddy at the thought of green soon turning copper and crimson... I really do.
A few weeks ago, I read the esteemed Joan Didion's essay, "Goodbye To All That", which appears in her collection Slouching Towards Bethlehem (which I plan to read in its entirety one day). It truly stunned me and stirred up a plethora of emotions. In the essay, Didion writes of her initial love and ultimate departure from her adopted home of New York City. Having just moved to the city in my early twenties, I resonated so profoundly with her awe of this place, and it got me thinking about such things as overwhelm, wonder, disillusionment, withdrawal.
I spoke to my new friend Audrey (a fellow librophile and altogether wonderful person) about the essay the other night, and we agreed that a particularly relatable aspect of the piece was the way Didion described her understanding of New York as a quasi-utopian concept rather than a mere place. She writes:
[...] New York was no mere city. It was instead an infinitely romantic notion, the mysterious nexus of all love and money and power, the shining and perishable dream itself. To think of 'living' there was to reduce the miraculous to the mundane; one does not 'live' in Xanadu."
Yes! A million times yes! Audrey put it perfectly when saying that, while we who have lived in New York for a relatively short time (two years for her, four months for me) might acknowledge the challenges of this city (groceries, for instance!), such logistics are not dwelt upon extensively. These trite details pertaining to living in a place (paying rent, buying bus passes, etc. etc.) seem irrelevant in view of the meaning New York has for many of its inhabitants: a place for dreams to be pursued and lived out, a place to come home within oneself. Like Didion, New York is far to me than just my current location. It is instead a series of scenarios I've long imagined and now get to embody- it's a sort of symbol of thrill and perseverance and energy and beauty and home.
And then, this. A point made by Didion which made my heart thump:
Some years passed, but I still did not lose that sense of wonder about New York. I began to cherish the loneliness of it, the sense that at any given time no one need know where I was or what I was doing [...]. I was not then guilt-ridden about [how I spent afternoons], because I still had all the afternoons in the world.
The loneliness, independence, solitude, anonymity wrapped up in this city have been an important challenge and gift to me, too -an invitation to learn to fully embrace myself, and to both notice and feel things deeply.
This part of the essay got me thinking about the ways I've spent afternoons with myself and New York. There are many, many days where I have unexpectedly or quite intentionally been on my own, and I have savored this feeling that no one knew or needed to know where I was or what I was doing. With that sense of wonder, of course.
Moments I have enjoyed alone in New York:
Being the extrovert that I am, I dare say there is something unspeakably magical about a place that would keep me feeling playful and fulfilled when so often by myself. I don't think any other city could ever feed my gregarious nature quite like this one.
Call me naive, but I think it would take me a long, long time before becoming disillusioned here as Joan Didion so describes. I suppose that, had I come to New York with a one-way ticket, perhaps I would eventually realize I am not immune to the fate of many New Yorkers, who forcefully come to realize their time in the city, for their sake, must end. But, for now, I dread having to say goodbye to all that in just a couple months. I am eager for the season awaiting me out West, but I know a brief season of grief will accompany this departure.
To date, I am madly -unshakably- in love with New York. She is a financial hemorrhage, she's a constant stream of overwhelm, she's a humbling mirror- but when has anything easy ever been worth it?
I could take my very last breath here, I really could.
A few weeks ago, I read the esteemed Joan Didion's essay, "Goodbye To All That", which appears in her collection Slouching Towards Bethlehem (which I plan to read in its entirety one day). It truly stunned me and stirred up a plethora of emotions. In the essay, Didion writes of her initial love and ultimate departure from her adopted home of New York City. Having just moved to the city in my early twenties, I resonated so profoundly with her awe of this place, and it got me thinking about such things as overwhelm, wonder, disillusionment, withdrawal.
I spoke to my new friend Audrey (a fellow librophile and altogether wonderful person) about the essay the other night, and we agreed that a particularly relatable aspect of the piece was the way Didion described her understanding of New York as a quasi-utopian concept rather than a mere place. She writes:
[...] New York was no mere city. It was instead an infinitely romantic notion, the mysterious nexus of all love and money and power, the shining and perishable dream itself. To think of 'living' there was to reduce the miraculous to the mundane; one does not 'live' in Xanadu."
Yes! A million times yes! Audrey put it perfectly when saying that, while we who have lived in New York for a relatively short time (two years for her, four months for me) might acknowledge the challenges of this city (groceries, for instance!), such logistics are not dwelt upon extensively. These trite details pertaining to living in a place (paying rent, buying bus passes, etc. etc.) seem irrelevant in view of the meaning New York has for many of its inhabitants: a place for dreams to be pursued and lived out, a place to come home within oneself. Like Didion, New York is far to me than just my current location. It is instead a series of scenarios I've long imagined and now get to embody- it's a sort of symbol of thrill and perseverance and energy and beauty and home.
And then, this. A point made by Didion which made my heart thump:
Some years passed, but I still did not lose that sense of wonder about New York. I began to cherish the loneliness of it, the sense that at any given time no one need know where I was or what I was doing [...]. I was not then guilt-ridden about [how I spent afternoons], because I still had all the afternoons in the world.
The loneliness, independence, solitude, anonymity wrapped up in this city have been an important challenge and gift to me, too -an invitation to learn to fully embrace myself, and to both notice and feel things deeply.
This part of the essay got me thinking about the ways I've spent afternoons with myself and New York. There are many, many days where I have unexpectedly or quite intentionally been on my own, and I have savored this feeling that no one knew or needed to know where I was or what I was doing. With that sense of wonder, of course.
Moments I have enjoyed alone in New York:
- Poking around thrifted treasures at Housing Works, on the Upper East Side
- A gravlax bagel at Russ & Daughters
- Jogging through midtown and in Central Park
- Writing by the window at Orwasher's, while sipping a foamy cappuccino, nibbling on a sticky bun and much people-watching.
- Listening to the soundtrack of Lalaland (on repeat) whilst walking to Bryant Park from the office
- Perusing the volumes at Shakespeare & Co (and thinking there are few places in the world that make me happier than a bookstore)
- A famed hot-dog at Gray's Papaya
- Calling out "The Sparrow!" to a man on Amsterdam Avenue, who'd strapped a radio to his bicycle and brought Edith Piaf along for the ride
- Reading a memoir while enjoying mac & cheese at S'Mac (a funny thing: the two people seated on either side of me were, too, on their own. I suppose comfort food is ideal when on your own!)
- Another book, whilst eating Margherita pizza at Vezzo's
- Perusing Grand Central Market on a Friday (not to buy, just to look)
- Laying in the sun by Belvedere Castle, in Central Park
- Sandwiches weeks apart: ham comte at Le Petit Parisien in the East Village, a Bahn Mi at Pho 5 Midtown, prosciutto at Mike's Deli in the Bronx.
- 42nd with Django Reinhardt, on a rainy twilight
- Days to read and write with fresh coffee at The ELK, and Happy Bones Coffee
- Buvette's, for a fluffy waffle (thinking I must be in Paris, not New York)- and striking up a friendly exchange with the sweet woman seated beside me
- Taking a train and finding the beach on a bright Sunday- breathing salty air, admiring small beach homes topped with patriotic flags and letting the sand run through my fingers
- Silently walking through Strawberry Fields, as the Beatles sang through my headphones
- An evening cup of pistachio, cardamom & caramel ice cream from OddFellows
- Strolls (so. many. strolls) and admiring the homes punctuating my way
- Interpreting art or furniture, left on the curb
- Being in the audience of the many, many piano players of Bryant Park
- Listening to Nessun Dorma on the 4 (I wept)
- Taking out my journal at Cafe Bleriot XI (that wallpaper undid me)
- The Secret Garden soundtrack playing softly as I made way around the Conservatory Garden, admiring monarchs dancing atop zinnias and milkweed
- Roamed Bloomingdale's, roamed John Derian West whilst dreaming up a "someday-house" and wondering what it would be like to place stockings upon a mantel, watch a baby's first steps on a detailed rug, stir sazeracs when night comes.
- Walking blisters into my toes from one end of Central Park to another
- A Brooklyn lager and cheeseburger at Black Tap Burgers
- Exploring bookshops upon bookshops, skimming Dickens and Proust and Mary Oliver (when I placed "Devotions" back on a shelf, the woman beside me sighed and said "It's beautiful, isn't it?")
- Making apple crisp, from scratch, to share with roommates
- Rice to Riches, for the best rice pudding ever known to humankind
- An afternoon at the Guggenheim (overhearing a Québécois family speaking, and feeling that heart of mine slowly melt)
- My first taste of Israeli cuisine at Miznon
- Watching sweet folk dancers by Turtle Pond
- A day on Arthur Avenue, exploring the Italian market and Prince Coffee for a sip
- Re-discovering Half Moon Run while wandering around The Harlem Meer
- Meandering through the West Village, Magnolia Bakery's banana pudding in hand, enchanted by ivy climbing up brick and the music of the London Oratory Schola Cantorum Boy's Choir
- Bodega runs, at any given time
- Curled up on the couch for some Gilmore Girls (because, fall) with a mug of hot chocolate topped with a liberal quantity of marshmallows
- Hunting for classics at the New York Public Library, my new membership card in hand
- An office view and a passing thought that took my breath away: I live here.
Being the extrovert that I am, I dare say there is something unspeakably magical about a place that would keep me feeling playful and fulfilled when so often by myself. I don't think any other city could ever feed my gregarious nature quite like this one.
Call me naive, but I think it would take me a long, long time before becoming disillusioned here as Joan Didion so describes. I suppose that, had I come to New York with a one-way ticket, perhaps I would eventually realize I am not immune to the fate of many New Yorkers, who forcefully come to realize their time in the city, for their sake, must end. But, for now, I dread having to say goodbye to all that in just a couple months. I am eager for the season awaiting me out West, but I know a brief season of grief will accompany this departure.
To date, I am madly -unshakably- in love with New York. She is a financial hemorrhage, she's a constant stream of overwhelm, she's a humbling mirror- but when has anything easy ever been worth it?
I could take my very last breath here, I really could.
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