eight days of cold, concrete, and chance
offerings from NYC
The 7 train clatters overhead, screeching in deafening protest to arbitrary thoughts. Once the rattling metal subsides, an airy quiet pervades the chill, and I remember the cold biting my cheeks. They must be flush against the bluish night now despite having just emerged from subterranean fustiness. It feels like a lifetime ago that I braced for northeastern winter. And in the way that youth can feel a distant reality in your 20s, it was a lifetime ago that I sought respite in the city during chillier months. But this time, I wasn’t here on escape’s terms; the visit was simply overdue. My breath undulates in passing neon as I scour my mind to collect reasons behind that sentiment. It was January, a constructed fresh start that I would be ridiculous to reject, and I was exploring its potential in brilliant metropolis. Though that wasn’t entirely it…
“Oh awesome, New York! What for?”
“To see my friend, Carolyn, she’s been anticipating hosting me, which is really sweet,” I said in broken-record fashion, obviously grateful, though aware of how devoid of excitement I sounded.
Only a few years ago, I was a different entity, and so was New York to me. It was a breather from Boston’s trite everyday, where walking habitual roads felt more pointless than comforting, and from difficult loneliness, where the constant struggle to connect with peers inundated me with hopelessness. Intoxicating was my first whiff of NYC, and I longed for more. The month I bunked in East Harlem, I wrote of the speck I became among stone giants, liberated and nourished by life vaster than myself. Galavanting about in happy-hour tipsy, I relished the electric scene and so wanted to join it. And revisit I did, zigzagging the city as a new graduate. Hesitant to tackle a wider world of unknowns, I desperately delighted in taking vacation beforehand.
However, this time was unlike the others; I wasn’t running away from something.
The desire to live in NYC took a backseat as I navigated last year, driven by instinct. With the film school graduate crowd, I moved to sunny, well-tempered Los Angeles. I dreamt of Lalaland in teenage tenor. And as an adult, I stared out from Griffith, still dreaming. But like the vagaries of life, I blew with the wind. My lease housed a ghost of an alternate version of myself. Overseas, I sought to redefine my Chinese roots and pursue racing experiences. My purpose, however, waned into an afterthought. Soon, I trudged amidst directionless space, fighting in futility to resolve the struggle of not knowing what I wanted. This dread crept across the new year and into pre-travel nerves. The city suddenly became encumbered with self-imposed expectations to decipher life’s roadmap.
As I waited for my flight, I was fraught with a distinct anxiety. I was addled by various seasons of meandering search for whatever the hell I was supposed to do (who/where/when was I meant to be?). Would I be confronted with my lack of findings and subsequent failure in New York? Miles above San Francisco, I spiraled around the odds of a plane crash. I was never really afraid of the odds until now.
Returning to NYC after forever was jarring. It felt like stepping into a time anomaly where previous happenings and prospective events collided. Suddenly, I was in a nebulous realm of wistful sentiments and wobbly anticipation. Maybe this is what prolonged reflection does—refracts reality’s looking glass. All I know is what I’ve journeyed; all I can prepare for is what I don’t yet know. I am suspended in between, anchored to a present not fully realized. Anything is possible.
On an unassuming Tuesday night, I wheeled my carry-on along cracked sidewalk and then carpeted hallway. Stepping into Carolyn’s apartment felt surreal. We’ve known each other since hazy Chinese school Sundays spent stealthily passing notes—the innocent rebellion of early adolescence when our eyebrows were still unkempt and unbothered. Little could we have imagined our paths would diverge and intersect the way they have and will continue to.
It’s curious how you can know a person through time. In ponderous instances like this, I realize their existence in both past and present. All the familiarities and changes spanning between two friends—this is the grander universe.
It was Saturday when flakes began drifting. That afternoon, I subwayed to the Upper East Side to meet Julija, my freshman-year roommate. We chatted in halogen warmth, indulged in saccharine pastries, and then glanced out the bakery’s window. There must’ve been something in the air or simply sugared giddiness, but we fancied ourselves a walk around Central Park.
The snow came first, then the thoughts. Within moments, we appeared on the west side, the trail behind us lost in white. In winter wonderland, I believed in magic. It seems abstract, absurd even, to admit. But in pure powder, I could dream again. The jade I had accumulated over the past year softened. Then, for the third time, Julija slapped a cushion of crystal. I glided a finger along an icy surface. And the dance began. We dragged our feet along the ground, swirling jagged hearts and paving our names in curvy legibility. We were here, echt and radiant. Until the snow took us away.
This winter, I donned a blanket of fears. In an attempt to shield myself from disaster, I felt like one. Though I can’t yet exclaim that I’ve shed this blanket, my mind is gently easing again into wherever I presently am. And for eight days, New York was where I fully, truly existed.
Maybe it’s the luxury of brevity afforded by visitation or delusional nostalgia, but I missed this: the cold, concrete, and chance. I missed NYC. And more than that, I missed my faraway friends—home away from home. It’s a lucky thing to enjoy the enduring comfort of endearing welcomes, and I am so very lucky.
I may not know what I want, but I have more than enough of everything else. Perhaps I’ll never hold any substantial answers, but I found all I needed in passing pauses with company, in New York.