For me, New York is still home.
Yesterday one of my dearest friends told me that she’s planning to sublet her East Village apartment at the end of July and move back to her hometown across the country.
Ugh.
Our friendship has been one of the most effortless, beautiful relationships of my life. With her, I feel as though I can be my complete self. There’s no judgement. It’s supportive and collaborative. Honest and vulnerable. We can talk about anything and everything, from politics to flings. It’s the type of genuine partnership I wish for everyone.
It makes me think about a phrase I revisit from time to time:
You can do good times with anyone, but not the bad.
… with her, I can do it all.
When she told me, I froze up. I felt my stomach sink a little. She’s been talking about moving since we met a few years back. I was definitely prepared to hear the phrase “I found someone to take over my place,” sooner or later. I guess I just didn’t expect it would be the former.
I’ve had this particular conversation a lot over the past few years — and especially as of late. It’s never me, the one saying “I’m outta here.” At least not for more than a few days at a time. For some, it’s a forever kinda move. Their New York love affairs are coming to an end, and they’re ready for what’s next. For others, it’s a “goodbye for now,” hoping to return after “Phase XYZ” and “social distancing” aren’t regular components of our vernacular.
A few 2020 highlights: A couple I adore drove down to South Carolina when the pandemic began, coming back only for a few days last month to move out of their TriBeca apartment. They don’t have a return date. Another friend left on Wednesday for Washington; still has an apartment, but no return date. There’s my friend who desperately wants to flee his West Village apartment and move upstate, for good. My cousin, his wife, and their new baby who are saying goodbye to Brooklyn and headed to a new home in West Orange, New Jersey. The friend who texted me a few weeks back asking “Do you think we’ve both been stubborn about staying here?”
I don’t know if stubborn is the word, really.
Here’s my hot take:
New York is the best damn city in the world.
Bold statement, I know. Trust me, I’ve been to a lot of them. But every time I come back here, I’m reminded of New York’s magic. In New York, you can do a whole lot. In my pre-pandemic life, I could tackle a hot yoga class alongside A-listers like Shailene Woodley or Christy Turlington, rinse off post-savasana, and 20 minutes later be on a rooftop with a cold mezcal cocktail in hand overlooking the Empire State Building. In New York, you can go bouldering in Central Park, run over one of three different bridges to Brooklyn, and catch crashing waves (and some of the best tacos) at Rockaway Beach.
New York is a city where dreamers dream, women carry an extra pair of flashy heels in their overpriced purse “just in case,” and square footage comes at an absolute premium. In New York, there’s a guy hanging out by the local bodega at all hours, who not only knows your name, but what time you get up in the morning. There’s a constant, lingering scent that some may describe as garbage but — IDK — to me it just reeks of possibility. Because here in the Big Apple, you get knocked down 10 times but get up 11. That’s part of the whole schtick.
I’ve come into my own here. I lived here during Sandy, but that’s not the only hurricane I’ve braved since moving to the Upper East Side in April 2012.
Job lay-offs.
Injuries.
The one time I got mugged.
Failed relationships.
Getting kicked out of an apartment by an awful management company.
About five months of stay-at-home orders.
Of course, for every tough memory, there are beautiful ones, too. The four times I ran the New York City Marathon. The 30th birthday at The Standard Biergarten surrounded by my best friends and family — dripping sweat on a 100-degree June day. The dream job interview where I pleaded my case, saying that “I’ll do this job better than anyone else who walks in here.” I still can’t believe that those words came out of my mouth, and I got hired the next morning. The day I released Hurdle. The countless dates I journaled about that felt too good to be true, like the one that ended with cannolis from Ferrara Bakery and a kiss in a small Italian restaurant on Grand Street while the three-piece band played “At Last,” or the 5-hour hangout session on my tar beach of a roof involving prosciutto-topped brick oven pizza and Jay-Z’s MTV Unplugged album where I confessed some of my deepest secrets.
It’s not lost on me that a lot of these things I’m mentioning, they can’t be at this very moment. Life is different now, in New York. While it may be the city that never sleeps, she’s resting — that’s for sure. Fact is, I’ve always had a tough time walking away. I’ve long found pride in being a fixer. The person who wants to work things out. (It likely comes at no surprise that in every serious relationship I’ve ever been in, I wasn’t the one who ended it.)
Still, while others feel like they’re ready to break up with New York, I’m not there yet. Her essence, it’s still here. The lingering scent of possibility? That’s here, too — topped with a dollop of hand sanitizer.
Last night, I was posted up on my couch watching season five of Sex and The City, as a single 30-something woman does on a Thursday night. In it, the girls are debating the idea that every woman gets a max of two great loves. Carrie says something in her closing monologue that feels applicable here and now:
If you only get one great love, New York may just be mine.
I’ve found something special here in this special, special city. Something I’m not ready to give up just yet — or maybe ever.
It’s still New York or nowhere, for me.
—
PROMPT: If you could be anywhere with anyone right now, where would you be? Who would you be with?