Fieldnote: NYC, Nice to See You Again
Wrapped in a Parisian scarf and distressed leather jacket from a long-lost friend from another version of my life, almost forgotten, I returned to New York twenty years later.
The last time I was there, I was young, reckless, and in heels, running around the night scene. This time I was a mother in boots, chasing teenagers through ferry stations, museums, sidewalks, and theaters.
I had not been back to New York in twenty years.
In my memory, it had stayed suspended somewhere in the early 2000s — movie sets, yellow cabs, the smell of coffee and hot pavement, black coats and cigarettes and rushing feet. I expected to feel older there. Out of place, maybe. But instead I felt strangely alive. Buzzing. Like running into an old love.
New York is still a city of motion. Concrete signs. Words everywhere. Lights. Trains. Airplanes. Boats. Shipping crates. Warehouse buildings. Cars and buses moving in impossible choreography. At one point I watched two buses pass each other with what looked like inches to spare while people casually walked right up alongside them as if none of it was dangerous at all.
Out of place, maybe. But instead I felt strangely alive. Buzzing. Like running into an old love.
The city moves with a jaunting confidence, almost too aggressive on the street. Horns blare. Cab drivers surge forward. People bump past each other and somehow it all works.
And yet behind the glass doors it all softens. Smiles. Lounge chairs in coffee shops. Soft piano music. Little tables by windows. Warm light. Places to sit down and breathe before stepping back out into the rush again.
The city can be overstimulating, almost too much at times. But New York also seems to understand that. There is always somewhere to pause. A park bench. A museum gallery. A French oil painting of the countryside. An espresso. A gelato. A place to catch your breath before stepping back into the noise.
What shook me, jarred me, stunned me, surprised me was the city's beauty.
The last time I had been there, we shot through the subways. This time we traveled more by bus, and because of that, I really saw the city.
I saw neighborhoods and boroughs each with their own personality, changing block by block. I saw old buildings beside shining glass towers. I saw flower stands, corner stores, tiny parks, iron staircases, murals, and laundry hanging in windows. I saw elevators with inlaid wood and old brass details. I saw statues and the Imagine memorial for John Lennon. I saw fountains in Central Park and the beautiful terrace beneath the park, painted wall to ceiling. Birds hopped around with bits of straw and grass in their beaks, building nests at the tops of the columns. Music echoed against the tiled walls and turned the tunnel into something magical.
The city can be overstimulating, almost too much at times. But New York also seems to understand that. There is always somewhere to pause. A park bench. A museum gallery. A French oil painting of the countryside. An espresso. A gelato. A place to catch your breath before stepping back into the noise.
I saw remnants of New Amsterdam and old Wall Street. Churches tucked between tall buildings. Staggering beauty in unexpected places.
Church bells would begin to play — it is noon, it is noon, it is noon — and suddenly everyone seemed to shift direction.
Find lunch. Find a coffee. Find an ice cream. Take a carriage ride.
There was Puglia's Italian food — chicken parmesan, baked ziti, spaghetti and meatballs. Gyros for lunch. Gelato beneath a tree. Vietnamese tea for a pick-me-up.
The city is a world buffet. Italian, French, Egyptian, Chinese. You can walk a few blocks and feel as though you have stepped into another country, another language, another mood. Even walking through the museums felt that way, as if you were moving through centuries and continents in the span of an afternoon.
Even the old train lines are being turned into gardens that run through the city, as if New York is always finding ways to soften itself, to grow something green out of steel and history.
I saw the city instead of simply moving beneath it.
What surprised me was how beautiful it was.
There were pear and cherry trees blooming everywhere. Daffodils, hyacinths, and tulips blooming so profusely they almost did not seem real. White blossoms cascaded over branches against impossible blue skies. Flowers gave way to concrete and lights and steel, then back again. It felt dizzying and gorgeous all at once.
At one point, even a raccoon appeared in Central Park, as if the city itself could not decide whether it wanted to be wild or civilized. A civilized racoon that watched people from a patch of flowers before slowly wandering back up a tree. Self possessed.
There were moments that felt cinematic. The smiling faces at the falafel and gyro carts. Girls running hand in hand, skipping across the street, exaggerating their delirium and mocking their own happiness in that self-deprecating way only teenagers seem capable of. Bargaining in Chinatown for a pink wrap with faux fur trim. Wearing it later to the Cotton Club for a jazz night that made me feel glamorous in a way I had not expected. Bargaining in Chinatown for a pink wrap with faux fur trim. Wearing it later to the Cotton Club for a jazz night that made me feel glamorous in a way I had not expected. The Kerr Theatre and Hadestown, which felt like more than a show. It felt like being reminded that people can still make beautiful things and project themselves outward into the world.
I loved watching my girl experience the city. There is something powerful about introducing your child to a place that once felt so large and important to you. I loved watching her take it in — the movement, the scale, the lights, the excitement. It felt like handing her a piece of the world and saying: this belongs to you too.
At the Met, I remember a dressed-up couple drifting through the galleries looking as if they had stepped out of another decade. I remember the Degas ballerina looming toward me, one hand held out, as if she was reaching across time. I remember having to hurry behind a teenager determined to see the musical instruments exhibit.
There were moments that felt cinematic. The smiling faces from the middle eastern vendors at the falafel and gyro carts. My girls running hand in hand, skipping across the street, exaggerating their delirium and mocking their own happiness in that self-deprecating way only teenagers seem capable of. Bargaining in Chinatown for a pink wrap with faux fur trim. Wearing it later to the Cotton Club for a jazz night that made me feel glamorous in a way I had not expected.
And then there was the Empire State Building.
First the interactive exhibits, then the daring ride upward, and then suddenly the city spread out below in every direction. Lines of lights. Bridges. Tiny moving cars. Endless high rises. Sirens. The strange realization that all of those little windows contained entire lives.
I think what surprised me most was how capable I felt there.
Not young exactly. Not glamorous in the effortless movie way. But capable. Comfortable. Awake. I felt good in my shoes. Good carrying my bag through the city. Good sitting down for coffee. Good figuring things out. Good being a woman who had lived enough life to return to New York differently than she had left it.
Home felt more like home after being away.
I came back with small pieces of the city: a pen and watercolor of the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty for my wall, wasabi peas from Japan Village, Vietnamese tea, and a new appreciation for cocktails while dressed in a wrap listening to the soft sizzle of jazz beneath a top hat.
I love home.
But I love New York too.
I took quick photos and little videos everywhere — snippets. A corner of the map. A blur of passing train. A bright sign. Graffiti. A cup of coffee. Little pieces of the city I wanted to keep.
I made a journal from it all. Snippets. Captures. Fragments.
I bought an I Love New York t-shirt and pajama pants. A lucky cat. A King Kong coffee mug. Happy tourist moments.
It is such a gift to live close enough to a city like that, a place I could visit over and over again.
I find so much comfort in eating from the food trucks. Standing in a Chinese noodle shop slurping spicy noodles. Licking melting berry gelato from my knuckles as it drips down a waffle cone.
Even the 9/11 memorial felt different twenty years later. More healing. More hopeful. The sharpness of the chasm had softened into something quieter and more beautiful.
Healing. All of us. One world. Together. With hope.
And I got to share all of it with one of the most important people in the world to me.
See you again soon, New York.
It is never goodbye. It is only for now.
Twenty years ago, I was still trying to become someone.
This time, I arrived as myself.
And I left with healing.
And hope.
