Monday, August 14, 2017

The Dome Dominates NYC: Numero C

I was ten years old when I first visited New York City. My mother took my sister and me on a girls’ weekend, and it was magical. We ate a decadent Oreo sundae at Serendipity*, saw Phantom of the Opera on Broadway, spent a day in SoHo, and passed through Nike Town so often, my mother befriended the staff.* I loved it. The massiveness, the energy, anticipating when the walk sign was going to turn. The trip coincided with my burgeoning passion for tennis and quickly fading obsession with interior design, so I spent the summer practicing against my garage, imagining my life in a lush Midtown apartment that had an uncanny resemblance to Jerry Seinfeld's, breaking from tour as the next Anna Kournikova. Not everything turned out as planned.

Friday was the last day of my internship. I had my laundry guy, Mario, and my coffee guy, Zach. I had my 7:45 gym crew. I gave directions to a couple foreigners on the train the other day. Not just general directions. I gave them the optimal route. I finally figured out the conference system at work. Obviously, it was time to leave.

Grad school seems to be a constant transition. The moment you’re comfortable with class material, a new quarter begins. The moment you’re comfortable in your own skin, recruiting starts. The moment you’ve established solid relationships, it’s summer. And the moment you’re comfortable with your work, you leave.

It’s also a time for experimentation, to be selfish, and to figure out your best move forward. New York City was an experiment. When I began grad school, I desperately wanted to return home when I finished. After all, there is so much that I love here, and not a Sunday went by that I didn't miss family dinner. And then I spent a summer in New York.

I don't know if I can do any description justice, other than that it gets me. Opportunity is everywhere to create your own adventure, whether it's listening to a bluegrass jam all night, strolling through the Met*, or people watching in the park. It's a place where I can sit on the subway and create narratives for any of the dozens of people around me, like the man texting the contact "unknown caller." Maybe it was a joke, or maybe the contact was labeled "unknown caller" because he was hiding something. They were texting about a hotel room. Were they meeting for a drug deal or a torrid affair? I'm an optimist, so I decided he had hunted down his wife's long lost sister, wanted to keep it a secret, and today was the day for the big reveal over a steak dinner.

It's a place I can sprint down the street with my ten pound gym bag and heels because I had gone to the wrong restaurant location and not run into someone I know. Where I enter a bar at noon to pick up my credit card from the night before and am greeted by three men on holiday from Switzerland, insisting that I have pickleback and join them on top of the bar, dancing to Springsteen. Where I was not asked once why I was still single or when I was going to meet someone.

But I did meet so many people. People who don't have everything together but are figuring it out, and in that chaos and grind, there's a sense of unity. Despite what I had heard, even the strangers were lovely: from the man who carried my bag down the subway stairs to the sweet girl dancing to the subway violinist. I didn't get cat-called once, but I did receive multiple compliments from random men, including how fabulous my eyelashes are - thank you, fellow residents of the West Village.

Of course, it had its annoyances. For instance, the credit cards. I don't understand why every bar doesn't enact the policy: give back the credit card, if I don't cash out, I get charged 20% gratuity. The fact that I spent $70 on ingredients to bake cookies. In retrospect, I should have just gotten one bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips, but I needed milk and dark chocolate for the integrity of the cookie. The multiple restaurant locations. The seventy year old man waltzing into the kitchen in tightie whities.* The stickiness of the subway, though even that was made better by the cool breeze signaling the approaching train. Still, every Sunday, I spent catching up with random friends passing through, enjoying brunch with new ones - which inevitably turned into an afternoon drink - or simply recovering from the week. While there was a moment or two of missing home, those moments were brief and slight rather than lingering and painful.

I'm back in Chardon. I can smell the fresh air, see the trees for days, and hear the crickets and birds. I gave gifts to my nieces and nephews, continuing to solidify myself as the favorite aunt, and they told me all about their summers. I spent the afternoon talking with Grandma, listening to stories about Frannie, who I'm apparently supposed to remember, and Ruthie, who died this past week. I went to dinner as the seventh wheel with my siblings and their spouses, laughed heartily and got a dessert all to myself. My dad talked through wing-T strategy and what the team needs to improve before the season starts. I love it as much as I always have, but this will always be here. For the first time in a long time, I'm excited that the next stage of life may be somewhere else.

* I didn't share.
* that’s not surprising, though, because she makes friends everywhere.
* That's right, guys. I'm cultured.
* That can be avoided the next time around
* Perks of being single

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