You know, if you think about it, I've been living in the city for over a year now. I mean, I know this. I have known this. And this has been, without question, the longest year of my life. So I've known that I've lived here for a very, very long time, even though it's only been a year in real-life time. (Just go with me here.) What I mean to say is that it's still very surreal, sometimes. You know? I'll be walking down the street, jamming to some excellent musical theatre selections on the ipod, feeling like Edna St. Vincent Millay ("O World, I cannot hold thee close enough!" Or something like that.), wondering where the nearest frozen yogurt shop is, and it'll just hit me: I live in the city of New York.
But I don't mean that I'm in awe of the city itself. When I think that thought in my head, that is. I mean, I am in awe of the city itself. Constantly. (In fact, it would be very accurate to say that I am so in awe of it that I am afraid of it. Most of the time.) It's more that I'm in disbelief about the events that transpired to get me here. I still have trouble believing that I managed to pack up and move my 'fraidy-cat-self away from all family and friends (save Allie) and learn to live The New York Way. Which would be the way of public transportation. And the way of eating ninety percent of my meals on the run. And the way of the starving-artist-waitress thing. And the way of winter hats. And the way of becoming desensitized to homeless people. And the way of ubiquitous stairs. And the way of walking quickly. And the way of creepy apartment hallways. And the way of constantly wondering how anyone can afford to live here.
I mean, for real. Allie and I were just two naive Southern girls who allotted a week of our pre-New-York summer to find an apartment. We stayed in this semi-sketch hostel and shared a bathroom with randos. And we learned so, so much. In just that week. We were so studious; every night, we'd take our laptops down to the hostel lobby and craigslist our way through hundreds of apartment listings, making phone calls and setting up viewing times and writing things down in our prim little notebooks. We were so diligent. (The two of us are nothing if not diligent. And also fastidious.) And I was so very terrified. On our first day of legit apartment hunting, I had a terribly upset stomach. (When I get nervous, I become super nauseated.) As we exited the subway and came back above ground, I had to rest for a minute under a tree and dry heave into some bushes. (The next day was even worse, beeteedub. I actually threw up. In a subway station. In a trash can. Oh, Columbus Street Station. I shall always associate you with my vomit. It was revolting. Subway trash cans are pretty disgusting in and of themselves, lemme tell ya. And there I was, hunched over one, retching uncontrollably. Passersby were equally revolted. They probably thought I was some hungover college kid losing my post-party greasy breakfast. Gah.) Poor Allie. (I love you, Allie. And not just because you can deal with me vomiting. Promise.)
I remember discovering the magic of hopstop.com. I remember climbing into the broker's car and wondering if she would be taking us to a deserted lot and murdering us, rather than showing us a different apartment. I remember the terror of those first two weeks, when I would sit on my bed, surrounded by pink pillows and blankets, desperately trying to find a job on craigslist. I remember my first day at the restaurant--I didn't know how to set up the tables, and when I tried to decorate the chalkboard that we propped outside the front door, the bartender told me that I didn't really have that great of handwriting. I remember journaling almost every day about how scared and sad and lonely and homesick I felt. I remember crying. I remember crying to my parents, specifically. All the time. About everything. I remember going to my first audition, for The Lion King on Broadway. (Update: I didn't get the gig.) (Hahaa. I crack myself up.) (I mean, I really didn't get it, though. It was funny because there's no way I would've gotten that dance job. And also because I wouldn't be a waitress now if I'd gotten any job dancing on Broadway.) (Oh, my. This is getting depressing.) I remember getting my library card. I remember the first time I wore tights under my jeans. I remember buying my first pair of boots.
It's just weird. I am not a courageous person. I say this with no false modesty--I am timid, deferential, and mediocre in most things. Moving here is easily the most difficult and also the bravest thing I've ever done in my entire life. And I still don't know if I made the right choice, moving here. Which is a pretty scary thing to come to terms with. I'm sincerely hoping that the next thirteen and a half months convince me that I've made the right choice. That this is where I'm supposed to be. (Because, you know, if not--I just wasted a year and a half's rent futzing around the good ole NYC.) I think things are looking up, though. I love my new apartment; I love having so many roommates; I love dancing for Mari; I love the twinkle lights in my room; I love the library system. I am scared of the winter and the coldness and unhappiness it will bring, but I feel more prepared to face it, this time around. I want to like you, New York City. Really, I want to love you. I do.
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