I came to visit one night. To make sure I could live here. We had drinks, my friend and I. And talked about life now, a year after school.
And then I took the red-line subway home, to my little pocket on the Upper West Side. I climbed into my too-small bed, in my too-small bedroom—my too small bedroom without a door--and I cried.
I cried for the all the things I imagined I was losing. I cried for failed expectations and the perpetual push away of that line—that demarcation of success.
And then I woke the next morning, washed away exhaustion and disappointment, and set about busying myself with all the tasks a move demands:
Telling the roommate. Letter of notice. Cleaning. Packing. Painting (oh the painting). To take the bed or not? Change of address. Weaning the wardrobe. Trips to Goodwill. Cajoling friends into helping with the actual move.
And all the while I was afraid. You see, I’d lived on the Upper West Side for five years. Two years in a dorm at 66th street, followed by two different apartments at 104th, and finished by my near-year stint at 80th. A forty block radius, in which I conducted my life. A forty block radius in which I attempted to become an adult. And yet here I was hurtling myself a hundred blocks north of my-so-called-home.
It was a product of funds. Of not having enough to live in such a “prime” location. It was capitulation, this move.
And yet I found that as I ticked away all those tedious tasks, I began ticking away other things--things I’ve long talked about but never acted on.
I bought a bike. And went in search of the perfect swimming pool. I found it at 145th and Riverside—I’m going tomorrow for the first time. I began to keep track of expenses and I (wait for it) did my taxes. And this idea of growing up, becoming an adult was suddenly an appealing notion. For the first time in my life (truly, the first time) it seemed thrilling, actually.
And so this move became about more than necessary funds, or the lack thereof. It was not capitulation, but decision. A choice. A change. An opportunity.
I spent the summer after my sophomore year of high school in Manhattan. Five weeks. I took the bus in every morning and walked thirteen blocks south to 27th street. And the city revealed itself to me and I to it. And I fell in love with mutual revelation.
I have spent five years trying to rediscover that love, or to recreate it.
Washington Heights is the most topographically diverse area in all of Manhattan.
It is.
Before I moved up here I would throw this fact around, using it as currency—one of many justifications I employed to convince others that I was in fact excited to make the move uptown. I don’t tell people this anymore, I don’t need to, I don’t need to justify anything. But because we’re all friends, I’ll tell you...two blocks north of me is a park where back in day, good ol’ George Washington set up fort with the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War. Mmmmm…I hate to brag, doesn't that history just turn you on?
And the street I live on is hilly. It bends to kiss the Hudson river. The George Washington Bridge stands guard against the skyline. It is strong and constant. The bakery across the street sells a roll that reminds me of my two week stint in Cuernavaca—we’d walk into a panaderia with two dollars in our pocket and walk out with two brown paper bags of bread—it was a happy time when one survived on bread and milk alone.
I can always find a seat on the A train. And the apartment gets light. And I have a door!
The grocery store on 187th is small and clean and wide with inviting aisles. It carries pumpking flax and ciao bella gelato. I could marry the grocery store! There are no crowds to fight, no throngs to move against. Fairway was always an experiment in tolerance and agility.
I love the relative calm here. The near silence. I love the ubiquity of bikes. Yes, the ubiquity of bikes! What a satisfying statement! And more than anything I love that it feels small and lush. It is a neighborhood. And I have found my Manhattan and mutual revelation is once more mine to unfold.
I loved Australia. The whole experience was divine. And yet there was no better feeling than climbing into a yellow taxi after a 20 hour sojourn, asking the driver to take me home, and for the first time in five years of Manhattan living, believing in the power of that word. Home.
...I'm no longer sleeping on an air mattress. Let the cheering begin.
So here are some pics of the room as it now looks. Note: this might be boring for anyone other than immediate family, but indulge me please.
And For those who don't know me really well, know this: this girl loves her bed--reading, sleeping, napping, oh my!
For a while there (okay, okay a brief day) the bed was in danger of looking like a hospital bed--twin bed, all white, think about it. And then Target came to my rescue. Love, love, love me some Target. A few pillows and a deliciously, comfortable throw (despite the fact that it hoards static electricity in its folds) make all the difference.
Please note the bins up top. You gotta get creative when it comes to storage in this city. Eventually I'll find a ladder so I can space them out evenly...
So for my 23rd birthday, October 4, 2008, my mom and I moved. Well, my mom helped me move.
I woke in the wee hours of the morning to pack up, load the car all by my lonesome (no men needed, thank you very much), and inhale a granola bar before my mom took to the roads. With me as her wing man (or rather the place her anxiety driven comments bounced off of) we made it to the new abode in record time.
We made it, only to find the street was shut down by a parade. No worries, we found a choice parking spot around the corner and the plan was that I would lug the boxes in while my mom would survey , take measurements, and eventually come to the realization that this place was just fine and hence I would be just fine. This was the plan. And it was carried out...somewhat successfully. After lugging one box I went in search of the police in hopes that they might let us in past the barricade, after all, while the street was closed it wasn't actually on the route of the parade. The fresh-faced all of eighteen officer took one look at me (I'm sure sweat was dripping at this point, despite the cool October air), laughed, briskly said no, and returned to his partner to talk about nothing of importance. No, no? But I was moving in? Shouldn't I have been granted some pass? This blockade was the first of many we would face on this momentous day, but we were not to be deterred. I finally got all the boxes in, my mom got the measurements and off we Ikea we traipsed.
We had been the night before, after my three hour tour of Lincoln tunnel, but now we were ready to buy. Bookcase, check. Chest of drawers, check. Two separate mirrors, check. All in a very chic, very grown up, fitting for a 23 year-old, color of black-brown. We loaded the items, or rather the very heavy brown boxes housing the yet to be assembled items, onto our cart with the help of a very handsome Spaniard (this time manly assistance was a must) and I proceeded to the checkout while my mom went to pull the car around. I paid, with my own money, and went to meet her. No man around to help load boxes into car. What's a girl to do. Go in search. Detour first--hunger takes precedence. Dollar bag of animal crackers from vending machine? Yes, please. By then I realize the boxes are already in the car and my search ends before it really began. So I head of to arrange the boxes, only to be distracted by the scent of nail polish coming from my purse. It spilled, but no real damage. However, in setting my stuff down to check I sat on my animal crackers with a resounding crunch and then as I reached to salvage them I dumped them all over the floor.
With or without the crackers we headed back to the city. During the car ride the boxes kept hitting my mom and so I was assigned to fasten them into place. Pit stop at Fudruckers for burgers. Then into apartment. Lugging boxes. All by ourselves. Off to sleepy's. Swayed by salesman ( I always am) so I've got a full on hold. At this point, so tired, barely breathing. No coherent trains of thought. Back to Montclair. Buy supplies for bunny cake. Nap. Oh thank you nap, I've missed you, you brought me back to life.
The two of us, while we accomplished alot, were like chickens with our heads cut off. If something could go wrong, we not only enabled it, but seemed to encourage it. Lucy and Ethel, we just can't decide who's who. Last October we may have had the perfect visit, but yesterday...yesterday was the perfect day.
