You've heard enough of my woes. This week's letter is an excerpt from my new blog post about my move to New York City. To read the full essay,
click here.
When we got dropped off one street away from the six-floor walk-up that was about to become our new home, I didn’t even have time to panic. We were suddenly standing on the street with too many bags and an oversized bottle of champagne I was gifted in my first few months of work at Shondaland that I refused to leave behind, but like most oversized bottles of champagne, also refused to drink, because then it would be gone for good. Dan’s mom — who will soon be my mother-in-law — had already quickly sped off from her two-second parking spot in what felt like the middle of the road, because, you know, New York.
I imagined our empty apartment waiting patiently for us above the noise, breathing deeply and peacefully like a loved one’s chest rising and falling in their sleep. But below, we were amidst the busy shuffling on the Upper East Side pavement, walking clumsily and awkwardly down the block. I look like a lost girl who had just arrived from Durham, North Carolina after living there for almost two years (spoiler alert: it’s true) in my blush pink day dress amongst everyone else, looking cool and breezy in athleisure and trainers. But the great thing about the city, I learned within the first minute of being there, is that no one cares what you are doing and no one is ever looking at you. Nothing is weird, because everything is weird.
I felt like Amy Adams plopped into another world, I tell a friend later on in a text, referencing the movie Enchanted. Since moving into that empty apartment with exposed brick walls and bathrooms so small that we can’t both stand in them at once, enchanted is exactly how I would describe experiencing this special city.
I wake up to the timeless scent of a fresh pot of coffee brewing in an apartment downstairs. The smell of clean laundry frequents the air midday, though hours later it’s replaced by the bitter lingerings of cigarette smoke. You see as many as ten quirky or heartwarming things a day here: a film crew setting up for a television shoot at a bar around the corner, an old couple holding hands by the East River, a rooster in someone’s tote bag on the subway. Despite what I’d heard from people outside of the city, so far, the New Yorkers I've cautiously come across love chit-chatting and are some of the most genuine and thoughtful people you’ll ever meet. (A woman once looked up the forecast for me when I walked outside and muttered “Shit, is it about to rain?” under my breath.)
Moving to New York City is a sacrifice to the gods. You sign up to exchange comfort in hopes of wonder; to exchange an old way of life for this electrifying one. Before your offering, you must ask yourself: What need I give up in order to live? (My answer, personally, is 12 boxes of donations.)
As our friend Max put it, “In New York, you only have space for what you need.” My imaginary Manolos and real-life sweaters are not packed in the stove à la Carrie Bradshaw, but our pots and pans do have a permanent place there in between baking sessions because there's no room to keep them anywhere else. It’s a fun challenge, or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.
Somewhere between tourist and resident, I constantly forget where I am and that I live … well … here. Walking outside to an immediate burst of light, a slew of sounds, and people hurrying by takes some getting used to. I constantly feel like I’m suspended in obscure, magical matter, like in Stranger Things, that is, until Amerie’s “One Thing” starts blasting in the Starbucks near 86th street and brings me to.
Before I made up my mind about moving to Los Angeles in college, my first dream at 18 was to live in New York City. Before I started making videos in high school, baby Mia was on her living room floor writing all types of stories. Before I wanted to work in film and television, I wanted to be a writer. Life has a funny way of returning to us, or simply returning us; dropping us off at the stoop of ourselves and our most innate being. I think about this often as I sit at my desk with my cursor flashing in front of me, looking out over the city. I take in the fact that I am a writer, that I am living here, that Iife takes us to all of the places that are meant to be.
