I arrive at Penn Station during morning rush hour on a Monday. Immediately stifling and hot stepping off the train, people swiftly weave inches away from each other in a calculated dance. I am engaged in a long distance relationship with New York City. After one year away from the big apple, I return to reconnect with the glorious town. Will it still feel like a home to me? I had forgotten how many people shared this place. Navigating through the congested terminal, I caught my first familiar glimpse in Penn Station – the particular place that stays in my memory is where the LIRR schedule hangs and the red circular logos indicating the 1 train lead to the subway entrance.
I stepped to the back of the line, 15 people deep, to purchase a Metro Card and was re-introduced to the culture of looking at the back of someone’s head. Always waiting. Not always patiently. Pleased with my “good train luck”, a short wait time, which can really make my day in New York, I step onto the train and sitting across from me is a former co-worker. I muster some cheer after having flown on the red eye and we chitchat. Big small world.
Shooting above ground on the 1 train I approach the familiar 125th St. stop which meant home for me between 2005 and 2007. I spot my favorite places, Pisticci and Toast and then am greeted by the arduous five-floor walk up to a dear friend’s apartment where I will stay. When I arrive my girl friends and I discuss what we often have talked about before: where to go to brunch?! What a luxury to be free with friends this Monday in New York City.
Friend of a Farmer, tucked within Gramercy’s canopy of trees and ivy, is a shabby chic country-style place, still serving breakfast when we arrive. My three friends and I shimmy into a corner nook of a table and I feel the thrill of being back in the city with these inspiring women at such a lovely place. I have French press coffee and the Boomer Special, which consists of eggs, pumpkin pancakes, sausage and potatoes. We sit in breezy sundresses chirping about big moves, grad school, travel and men. I pass the Union Square green market and wander the vast sidewalks near Sixth Avenue feeling the exhilarating swell of the city’s energy.
In Brooklyn at the Smith-9th F train stop I take the endless stairs to street level that meant home for me from 2007-2009. An ornery man hops the turnstile and curses at the meek station attendant sitting behind the glass. What a bully. Angry looking people loiter on the corner. Past the F Line Bagel shop where I used to get my carb-heavy breakfast and bad coffee, the gritty Russo notary signs, and the shuttered Brooklyn Yoga Center where I taught, I notice bike lanes have been painted guiding cyclists to the Red Hook waterfront. As I approach Court Street, the atmosphere gets shiny. Italian businesses and strollers make the sidewalks feel comfortable and familiar. The old men still sit outside the Italian social club and wander through the garden. I stop at my favorite café, Le Petite Café for some pulpy fresh squeezed orange juice served by the same waitress with the same harsh Brooklyn accent. The poorly placed automatic hand dryer in the bathroom still zooms on when I approach the toilet.
Past Prema Yoga, Area Yoga and Body Elite where I used to teach, I browse at Book Court, a cozy independent bookstore. Then down the attractive row of shops on Smith Street to Fall Café where my former housemate is waiting to meet me on the same bench where I first made her acquaintance. We spend the afternoon sitting at a sidewalk table at Abilene, sharing and supporting each other through life’s changes, sipping Six Point IPA.
Back in Manhattan, we attend a birthday gathering at a friend’s apartment that feels more grown up than the last round of New York celebrations I had attended one year ago. Here, my urban family ponders the indicators of being grown up as we sit on a deck during the clear night of summer. The day ends as it started – on the subway. Always on the subway.
Waiting for a friend I get coffee at Levain Bakery on the Upper West Side and smell the sweet aroma of the decadent gooey cookies. Grays Papaya sends another kind of smell, that of salty cooking hot dogs, into the street on the corner where I meet my old coworker and friend. We lunch at the girly sunlit corner called Gina La forina. Last time we met, she was visiting me in New York. We laugh that now I am the one visiting. The spinach frittata is light and delicious and we discuss our progress in the quest for work-life balance.
Sheep Meadow was made for sunny summer days like this one, a haven for Frisbee throwing, sun tanning and kite flying. I park myself in the plush grass for some time outdoors. The tall buildings beyond the trees remind me exactly where I am. While here I meet an old housemate and receive phone calls from friends with whom I used to go to this park. The phone exchange is special as I sit where we used to picnic.
Wandering out of the park, I visit the Mister Softee truck on 67th St. and meander through the newly renovated Lincoln Center. The Moore statue and reflecting pool is back. People log roll down the new grassy knoll shaped like a twisted flying carpet. The fountain now has a halo-like bench, updating the look of the iconic plaza meeting spot. Digital words fade in and out on the steps.
In Hell’s Kitchen, I get a snack at Kashkaval, my favorite Mediterranean smorgasbord. How I missed the spicy walnut pepper spread.
Tonight I see “Come Fly Away” on Broadway in at the Marquis Theater. My friend is performing in the show and I joke with her later about the nine-foot tall decal image of her dancing in the lobby. Surreal. The production is high energy with a fantastic band that plays with the tracks of Sinatra’s voice. The four archetypal relationships presented in the show are earnest, contrasting and entertaining. The dancers possess both masterful technique and presence. It is a delight.
Two of my friends and I unwind at Death & Co., a bar on the Lower East Side known for gorgeously crafted cocktails that you can’t make at home. We toast to our friendship and growing in new parts of the country. Like an old friend, New York will always be here for me.
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