No Place Greater
I won’t sugar coat it, my first year living in New York City was difficult. Most of my friends were either in the Boston area working or still attending college there. I knew my subway patterns to get to and from work and really stuck to them, rarely straying from the six train, always nervous I would accidentally miss my stop and end up in another borough where I would never be able to trace my way back home (i.e., walk across the street to the opposite side of the platform and take the train back from whence I came).
Growing up in suburban New Jersey provided a blue print for the inevitable move to the city. It wasn’t totally pre-determined though, I could have gone to college on the West Coast had I ever finished up those supplement essays for University of Southern California and stayed there after graduation. Massachusetts was an option too for post-grad life.
When a job offer presented itself during my senior year of college in the glorious world of NYC on 31st Street between 6th and 7th Ave., I accepted it on the spot. I nearly slithered out of my wheeled office chair on the second floor of the school’s career center where I was currently working as an intern out of pure joy and excitement.
Eventually, this beast of a city became my comfort zone. I once darted into a subway car to avoid a rat without much time to contemplate the train’s destination. Luckily, it was going in the direction I was headed — the subway, that is. The rat, I’m not so sure, but I would assume he or she went on to terrorize an unknowing tourist with slightly slower city-like reflexes given we were underneath Penn Station at the time.
New York City gives me a sense of freedom and independence I never really thought I would need to have. Walking to do things, which had probably been a simplistic and obvious concept to our ancestors, was not a suburban tradition in my life. A few car accidents and uneasy highway driving experiences later, and city living is a heavenly convenience.
Having spent the bulk of my twenties here, I’ve felt let down, or heartbroken, or antsy for things to change. Central Park has been a refuge for many-a-head-clearing-broken-hearted-walks filled with rampage in every step. Once I reach the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, I’ll feel calm for a moment, thinking, “It’s all still here…and it’ll always be here.” Soon after, someone will walk too slowly ahead of me and awaken me from my zen-like moment, driving me with purpose again as I circle the reservoir filled with infusions of rage and appreciation for the body of water I gaze out at, reflecting back to me all of the history and the conservation, the decided preservation to keep this collection of city blocks pristine.
It reminds me of the heart and the soul of this city and the intentional practice it takes to keep a little bit of yourself to yourself should you need the extra strength to battle those dark days.
Living in this city, I’ve been intentionally whacked in the head as I charged down the sidewalk to a workout class — so hard that I suspected I had suffered from a concussion, which doctors kindly and helpfully confirmed was a touch of hypochondria. I’ve walked home from buying groceries, contemplating my happiness and feeling on top of the world for a cold evening, only to later realize I had stepped in a giant pile of dog crap en route to my apartment in my new winter booties. I’ve been rejected by I don’t know how many prospective suitors, and preemptive career moves.
I’ve dealt with a lot of very real emotional roller coasters, putting Kingda Ka at Six Flags to shame, and saw the other side of them — after a few park walks.
New Yorkers are a tough breed, because New York City holds endless possibilities to fail, then walk on the same block where you were pelted, scrape the shit off from your shoes, dust yourself and probably your apartment off too, and start a new day. It’s the greatest city in the world, after all.
