Alone in NYC
I was in the greatest city in the world. Alone.
Bundled in two layers of sweaters and cashmere mittens, I arrived in New York City. I came to attend a winter ball, but the trip still left me with two days of freedom. In the back of a mustard-yellow taxi cab, I contemplated my last trip to New York: Sixteen and accompanied by my father to tour universities. By now, the thrill of the city had faded. The youthful days of visiting the Statue of Liberty while holding my mother’s hand or skipping through The Met in my Mary Janes had ended. My perception of the greatest city in the world faded, becoming hyper-aware on the subway and painfully paying for overpriced shoebox apartments. The city lights had dimmed, the skyscrapers cast dark shadows, and the magic of New York paled. Nineteen and alone, I hoped to restore my love for this place.
The Wall Street Hotel was my short-lived home. Within walking distance of Soho and Chinatown, the hotel’s lobby was composed of lavender walls and art deco couches. After checking into my room and promptly falling on the newly made bed, I left for my visit to Chelsea’s Marianne Boesky Gallery.
Outside, the gallery presents itself as a concrete building with few windows. I peeked through to discover the gallery’s high ceilings and minimalist layout, highlighting the grand art exhibits.
In my walk through the curated space, I discovered Dashiell Manley’s Model: a multi-canvas piece divided between the walls of the spacious room. The first painting of three was dark gray with egg-shell colored capital letters, written in different sizes, made with the clumsiness of a child. In the second piece, the artist painted a grid-like pattern of pastel colored squares. I wondered about the artist’s choice in colors from sunset orange to light blue to comforting beige. The third painting was black, similar to a chalkboard darkness tainted with angry and rash scribbles. Hardly making shapes, the image’s curved lines form an eye while the rectangles appear to represent buildings. The gallery’s curators sat together in wood desks, not far from Frank Stella’s massive geometric star sculpture and Sarah Meyohas’s purple mirages.
Chelsea was electric. Burger joints and tall brownstones and open art fairs lined the one-way streets. Walking through the icy neighborhood, I was reminded of the borough’s busy creative energy.
As I returned to the Wall Street Hotel, the sound of car horns filled my ears, its special kind of music. The clink of glasses, pop of champagne bottles, and laughter of tourists roaming the streets touched a lonely part of me. I didn’t need to move the hotel curtains to experience the expansiveness of New York City.
“New York is possibly the only place in which most people have already lived, in some sense, in the public imagination, before they ever arrive.”-- Ling Ma, Severance
Despite the lingering loneliness, I dedicated my next day to venturing the city streets for holiday decorations and uncovering the “hype” of New York’s bagels.
On my way to Nolita, I watched the sun rays fall between buildings and busy people rush between stores and offices. I stumbled upon Black Seed Bagels. Founded by two city bakers, Black Seed used a wood-burning oven, honey, and a variety of ingredients to craft their plain, cinnamon raisin, poppy, salt, and pumpernickel bagels. Toppings range from tofu to veggies to lox to cream cheese to raspberry preserves. The shop’s dark interior of wood benches appeared comforting, and the potted plants lovingly reached out from the shelves.
Like a mouse quickly navigating the walls of an old house, I traveled from Nolita to the West Village to Upper Manhattan. On 5th Avenue, I picked up All About Love by bell hooks from a bookstore, after seeing it on the shelf in a friend’s dorm room.
Walking to Rockefeller Center, I watched an old couple pose in front of the towering Christmas tree.A boy wearing earmuffs clung onto the walls of an ice skating rink, and a mother laced her child’s ice skates.
I continued roaming and suddenly found myself in Bryant Park. Christmas stalls lined the sidewalks, selling anything from rock salt lamps to apple cider donuts. Looking for company, I called a friend to join me for dinner at Serafina. Across from the theater district, Serafina vibrated with chatter and the passing of plates. Together, we dined on pasta and discussed our shared love for Greta Gerwig.
On this night, I felt closer to New York. Having traveled farther and seen a familiar face, I understood the way New York could embrace you. It might spoil you with diverse foods or surprise you by the sheer number of museums you can visit. However, the city that never sleeps left me awake with disappointment. Disappointed that I hadn’t felt alive in the city until now.
My last night in New York City rolled in with a looming storm. In my friend’s apartment, we applied makeup and zipped each other’s dresses in preparation for the winter ball at Cipriani Wall Street in the Financial District. Walking from the hotel to the ball in my biggest winter coat, the city had darkened. Light pollution stole the sky’s stars as my heels clicked against the wet sidewalk. Walking into the Cipriani felt like The Devil Wears Prada or an episode of Gossip Girl with ornate ceiling details and grand flower centerpieces at each table. Glamorous and alluring. The movies and television epitomized the Upper East Side’s attractiveness and prestige. Champagne flowed to glasses at each table, unbridled pours reaching every cup. The? Cipriani was dazzling–my friends and I almost laughed at the grandeur of such an event.
The ball ended with an after party at the Goldbar in Little Italy. I climbed into an Uber to head into the neighborhood of red and white checkered tablecloths and espresso cups. In the overcrowded, gold-themed lounge, music blared. I danced with friends, laughed at awkward exchanges between guests, and found myself finally distracted from the overwhelming chaos of New York.
“Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I am not living.” –Jonathan Safran in Extremely Loud, Incredibly Close
Being nineteen and in one of the greatest cities in the world presented two great challenges for me: choosing what to do and hoping it would bring me closer to my environment. Wondering if I should ice skate, shop, eat, tour, read, learn, or something else was stifling. Part of me was grappling with finally being alone.
College encompasses you, barely giving you time to breathe between a class or a night out. New York, in all its haste, gave me the opportunity to admire the chipped paint in a bookshop on 5th Avenue, get lost between the levels of colorful department stores, and call a friend from home on my way to the park. I’m grateful for New York but can see a city of both faults and perfections. Concrete sidewalks, art galleries, shadowed alleyways, amazing bagels, gold-themed lounges, and everything in between.