I'll miss you, New York

I’ll miss that first summer in New York. How I came with so much idealism and excitement. How on the night of August 1st when I arrived from California I found a $10 bill on the steps leading up to my apartment at 54 Cumberland St, which I took as a good omen. Or how the night of August 2nd was the most beautiful sunset I had ever seen; the first sunset of your new life is like seeing the sunset for the first time. Or how on August 3rd I saw a rainbow, except it wasn’t a full rainbow; it seemed to fade out into the sky like someone blending oil paints. My life is an abstract painting.

I’ll miss how new everything was that first summer. Like the way a new born baby looks at the world with wide eyed wonder. How eager I was to explore every nook and cranny of my new city. The honking of horns, the road rage exchanged between cars. A truck driver on Atlantic Av. leaning out of his window screaming at a white SUV, “did you forget how to drive?!”.

I’ll miss how it was 93 degrees and humid that day, and the overwhelming stench of garbage. But I didn’t mind, the city has character. I’ll miss finding myself in Books are Magic on Smith St, sweating from every pore of my body as I flip through pages of books I’d never buy.

I’ll miss my walks through Fort Greene Park. The smell of barbecue and hose water on the hot cement. The sounds of music blaring from bluetooth speakers, people conversing as a basketball bounces off the ground in a rhythmic heartbeat. The laughter of children running through the sprinklers, water guns in hand, at playful war. The sound of mothers telling their children climbing the playground upside down to stop before they end up hurting themselves. And at night, seeing the fireflies dance over the grass field, flickering like stars as people sit on picnic blankets and mull over their careers and relationships.

I’ll miss my favorite bench across from the Prison Ship Monument with a small, silver plaque that read, “Punk is whatever we made it to be”. It always made me think of Patti Smith, how she arrived in New York much like I did, 50 years earlier. And how I only lived 8 blocks away from her first apartment on Hall St. The universe teasing me with its signs.

I’ll miss walking around Park Slope and Boerum Hill. Lined with old brownstones and trees that shade you from the hot summer sun and encapsulates you in romanticism.

I’ll miss walking down 6th Av. in the month of October with “Autumn in New York” by Billie Holiday in my headphones. The refreshing, crisp autumn air fills my lungs like apple pie and cinnamon. The leaves, how they change and let go.

I’ll miss how everyone decorates their brownstones with cobwebs and plastic spiders and flimsy skeletons sitting on stoops, and jack-o’-lanterns with their crooked smiles.

I’ll miss the jazz music I’d hear coming from the top floor of one of those brownstones while walking to Barbès for a date night. A fragrance of the old New York as I imagine this must have been what it was like in the 60s, with John Coltrane and Ornette Colman and free jazz.

I’ll miss that first powdery snow of the winter. How I saw it fall from my bedroom window and ran outside just to feel its softness on the bottom of my boots. The way it accumulated on my window ledge and how I’d open the window to gather the snow in my hand just to feel the texture, squeezing it between my fingers. I’ll miss the way it lands softly on my overcoat. I’ll miss the stillness that comes with the snow; it’s the only time New York is quiet.

I’ll miss the halal food guy on Flatbush, right outside City Point. How I could always rely on him for a warm, hearty meal. I remember my frequent visits during that first winter in New York, when I was homesick and broken hearted. The familiar comfort of walking out of DeKalb Station and knowing he will be there, rain, sleet or snow. The smell of pastries and coffee emanating from his tiny cart provided my nose some comfort from the blistering winter cold. I never spoke more than 15 words to him, but it was all that was needed. I like not having the pressure of maintaining any deeper interaction.

“Could I get lamb over rice, please. And no salad.”

“Whitesaucehotsauce?” He asks in one long string of words.

“Yeah, both”.

He disappears into a corner of his food cart and loads up an aluminum tray with yellow rice and chopped up pieces of lamb. The lamb is so tender that it melts in your mouth.

He would always ask me a second time,

“whitesaucehotsauce?”

Asking that is probably so monotonous for him that he never processes that he’s already asked me. But I go along with it every time and just reaffirm that I indeed want both.

I’ll miss the feeling of collective relief once spring arrives. It’s like a sigh after holding your breath for too long. People actually greeting each other, happy to not be hibernating and hiding away. The blooming of the flowers, the allergies that burn my eyes. A rebirthing, the way everything feels new and fresh.

I’ll miss watching the sunsets at Brooklyn Bridge Park, usually accompanied by Betty Smith, Emily Dickinson, or whoever I happen to be reading in the moment. I’ll miss my favorite spot on a bench overlooking the East River and Manhattan Bridge with a view of the One World Trade Center standing tall. People watching in between pages. Wondering about their lives: if they’re happy, what fears they have, who they love the most and if they’re conscious of the fact that this all ends some day. Watching people stop and pull out their phones to capture the way the sun beams from behind the buildings and shines spotlights on the flowing water. It never looks as good on camera. The way the clouds catch fire, with their red-orange hues, or sometimes pink like cotton candy. I’ll even miss the sound of the B and Q trains rumbling across the bridge like some urban mechanical animal, going to and from places that I’ll never go.