Macaulay Culkin's Girlfriend
3am in the East Village.
There is always something to see in New York. A new experience to have. It’s a city with seemingly endless, open possibilities. This is a large part of why I have stayed for so long. But over the past year, after having Aadi, my life and its rhythms have changed. With limited time and energy, I have not engaged with all the ways that make this place so dynamic. It feels like I am only partially living in the city. If I’m honest, my most typical days could be lived anywhere. At least, anywhere that has sidewalks.
I understand that I am to blame for this. I could make more of an effort by making more plans. There is nothing between me and a concert or a show except for a few (infuriatingly expensive) clicks through Ticketmaster. Same for a dinner out – reservations couldn’t be easier to make once you decide on the place. The world is literally at my fingertips if only I stopped long enough to make the plan. But the best of New York is really all the experiences that exist in-between those plans. The most memorable stories come from unexpected encounters and thrilling run-ins that lead to late nights in strange places and early mornings with fascinating people.
Live in New York long enough and you are bound to end up on a Brooklyn rooftop at dawn with a woman who once dated Macaulay Culkin, or in a rando’s East Village apartment at 3am with a room full of people shouting philosophical nonsense over the sounds of Blondie, or in the backroom of a LES speakeasy on a slow night with a bartender who really wants you to try his many infused-absinthe concoctions even though they aren’t “quite ready yet.”
If I’m to re-engage with the city, it’s about making plans and then leaving space around those plans. This is the thing that has become hard. How do I remain open to the spontaneous magic of New York while also making it home in time to relieve the babysitter? I miss the feeling of leaving a show or a dinner, turning to a friend, and asking where to next. I miss strolling in a direction until something interesting presents itself. I miss the final goodbye of the night when I walk to a less convenient subway stop just so that the city and I can have quality time together. I miss feeling invisible; one of 8 million city dwellers just living life. I miss feeling small.
The other day I took Aadi to the playground. As he stiffly walked in his tiny Asics sneakers, a wide two-toothed smile on his face, I thought about how big the world must feel to him. Even the jungle gym seemed massive in scale compared to his little body. I thought about my responsibility to him and the confining feeling it brings up from time to time. I looked around at all the other parents who stood watching their small children toddle around. I saw bigger kids just beyond the fence line at summer soccer camp. I saw high schoolers getting an early start on football season. I saw a couple of twenty-somethings walking their dogs. I saw two older people swapping pill bottles. I turned back to Aadi and found him with arms wide open begging to try a new slide. I picked him up. He slid with utter delight.
On the way home, we took a different route, overshooting our own street because the day was mild and breezy; two of 8 million city dwellers just living our most dynamic lives.