Out of Town Girl
Born and raised in Mexico City, and having spent three years at a competitive arts school in a city notorious for its ruthless demand for ambition and constant self re-invention, Miri Vela created a second home in New York, complete with a dependable professional network, thriving friends, and a reputation for personal kindness and reliable diligence. However, with her next visa status up in the air — combined with Americans’ divisiveness over the country’s immigration policy and attitudes concerning non-natives — an otherwise stable existence is being threatened by external circumstances. One of the most admirable things about Miri, though, is her capability to let herself unapologetically freak out so that she can move on to figuring out solutions and finding peace. With that approach, there’s more time to discuss the good things in life, more room for optimism to shine through the dark anxiety, and more laughter to be heard in various cafes and restaurants throughout downtown Manhattan during the course of this summer.
I. Caffe Reggio (119 MacDougal Street)
A good friend makes you giggle even when you’re not in the mood to smile.
A great friend tells you the hardest things to hear — and will be there for you should you let yourself fall apart after listening to such difficult truths.
An amazing friend is a person with whom you can walk around Times Square and enjoy it. During rush hour. While all the tourists and businesspeople are out and about. And, yes: even when sober.
Miri Vela is a good, great, and more than amazing friend. She has made me burst into uncontrollable laughter so many times in my recent life that I’ve had to grip tables to steady myself and avoid hitting the patrons sitting near us. (This exact scenario occurred a few times during our mid-May interview at the iconic Italian cafe in Greenwich Village known as the original home of the American cappuccino.) She has been brutally honest with me on a number of occasions without ever getting anywhere close to harshness in either her tone or her intentions. (How affirming it is for people to trust in your ability to handle unhappy news — and to, eventually, pull yourself together and recover.)
And whenever we walk through Midtown, it’s still a freaking blast. This may, in part, be the result of Miri’s legitimate fondness of Times Square. The first time she visited Manhattan, she and her parents discovered a now all too elusive delight and calmness in the midst of mass chaos and disorganization: sitting on the red steps by the TKTS Discount Booth, gazing up at the dazzling lights and the gargantuan advertisements that have come to define modern metropolises (you know, rather than looking down at the small black mirrors that hold so many of our memories and far too many of our dirty thumbprints).
What else does she remember from that trip? “It was so cold, even though it was only September or October. I wasn’t used to actual fall weather. I had to slip into Aéropostale to buy a jacket,” she recalls with nostalgic warmth.
AERO filed for Chapter Eleven bankruptcy last spring. Far more surprising is that Miri’s first visit to New York was, in fact, her only trip to the city before she decided to apply for Tisch, the renowned arts school of New York University.
Which other colleges did she apply to? “None. NYU was the only one.”
She explains to me that, at the time, she wasn’t particularly worried about acceptance or rejection. During that point of her senior year in high school (and after just that one trip), Manhattan felt like her next home. If it wasn’t meant to be, she would figure it out later — and nothing (especially not time) could really be considered “lost” in the exciting process of putting yourself out there.
Here’s a silly question to ask Miri at this point: “How did you know so certainly that moving here was what you wanted?”
But, because my curiosity often outweighs my better judgment, the inquiry is uttered anyway. Miri’s a good sport and seems genuinely thrilled to answer: “I saw Chicago on Broadway. You know that one quote by Phil on Modern Family? It’s something like, ‘I don’t even know why that seat was so big — I was just using the edge of it the whole time!’”
High school Miri’s faith in herself and in the universe is remarkable, especially when it pertains to something as monumental as moving to a different country for the higher educational transition into adulthood. The reader should know that college graduate Miri’s self-faith and assurance in life remain, and such positive energy is contagious. Her current city of residence is one of the most infamously expensive metropolises on this good green earth, and NYU students are often ridiculed for the exorbitant financial investment that is their full-time tuition.
And yet, throughout the entirety of our friendship, I have never heard Miri bitterly complain about rent or money, even when such matters are the direct causes of her anxiety. She has not once expressed to me a moment of regret for the journey she started four years ago — and for the road that she continues to buoyantly walk on every day.
She had known that, of course, these past few years would have necessitated hard work and the capacity to appreciate progress over product. Life probably wouldn’t always feel fair. But NYU and NYC were what she wanted — and for her, before and now, that was more than enough to just do it and keep on going.
It’s almost as if — and get this! — Miri is aware that no one made her commit to such a lifestyle. Her decision was her own, and her dedication to champion herself — as a professionally trained actor, as an eclectically generous artist, as an academic student with a minor in child and adolescent mental health studies, and as a bona fide treasure of a human being — is more than evident by how she chooses to spend her time. In the past twelve months alone, she directed and starred in an independent project at NYU’s Experimental Theatre Wing studio based on ensemble-driven workshops and rehearsals, became a most beloved and responsible teaching assistant for a film and television production class at Stonestreet Studios for a full academic year, held three simultaneous positions at an Israeli theater company during a successful run of a show, and had a blast working at last summer’s sold out, month-long pop-up Museum of Ice Cream.
Miri’s mindful of how spiritually enriching yourself is just as important as financially supporting your way of living. She knows how to treat herself to artist’s dates just as much as she’s willing and ready to take care of colleagues in a professional setting, encourage fellow actors right before curtain that they’re phenomenal, and be the plus-one for pretty much anything, from the unironically typical (a wedding cocktail party on the Upper East Side or an ABC casting audition) to the endearingly niche (an afternoon screening of a Capra/Grant film at MOMA).
If you’re having a bad day on set, Miri will be the person you can talk to — but she’ll also be the trustworthy TA who makes sure you have your lines memorized, because that’s your job as a thespian. The first time she manually operated lights for a live performance was when the aforementioned Israeli theatre company did not have a lighting person and needed an employee who was up for the challenge. There are days when it’s especially difficult for me to get out of bed, but I’ll hop on the bus and subway for coffee and sandwiches with Miri, even if it’s just for an hour or two. Every day is better because of her — even if it’s just from knowing that I was lucky enough to have ever met her.
With that being said, it makes it all the more worrisome — and disheartening — to think about her uncertain visa status, and the fact that Miri may not be able to stick around in the place where she’s so perseveringly established a spectacular home for herself. We discuss those fears. “I used to work at the World Trade Center a few weeks ago, and the manager of the shop already had a visa. She was on her way to becoming a permanent resident. We all loved working with her. Then the travel ban happened. My coworkers and I got an email saying that our manager — who had been there for years — would no longer be with us. She had to go, just like that.”
And so Miri’s past few months have involved countless hours of research, several conversations with different lawyers, and a constantly underlying sense of urgency to work through a more than complicated situation. But, with Miri, there are no complaints. “Somewhere along the way, I figured that this was something I’d have to come up against. So I’m doing it. But hey, I also have to sleep, too. And enjoy myself.”
Did it take her long to adapt to this city of unfailing mayhem? She shakes her head. “It was pretty easy.”
Is she happy? She smiles — a most heartwarming sight to see. “Yes.” She tells me of a recent day off — a rare occurrence for her. “It was after [my girlfriend] Sabra and I had an arts and crafts date. I took a solo stroll on the High Line and then walked to this super fancy bookstore downtown. They had guards and security scanners with bins on the conveyor belt and everything! But the guards were nice, even though I walked out with no purchases. Way too expensive, but the place was so beautiful.”
She then walked to the Brooklyn Bridge and people-watched along the river before going back home to Washington Heights.
Uptown girl, she’s been living in her American world.
II. Cupping Room Cafe (359 West Broadway)
Fast forward a month and a half later. Due to a frightening subway train derailment, my plans for the day — including a job interview — have been moved around. Delays abound underground and in the Lincoln Tunnel during my inbound interstate commute, and when I finally reach downtown Manhattan, I decide to spend a bit of time in Washington Square Park, which is a place that will, until the end of my existence, most likely never not be romantic(ized) in my mind.
I sit down on a bench and crack open a book (Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, of course, because I’m a cliché — but quite proud!) and wait for Miri to meet up with me. It is a very hot and humid afternoon, and the Manhattan air feels even heavier with worry and confusion as people hunch over their phones and try to figure out how to get from point A to B since the C trains and more are experiencing significant delays.
When Miri meets me under the arch (I wasn’t kidding about the cliché self-label, you guys), I am surprised at how much my nervousness (from sitting on stalled buses and trains, from being late to an interview that I was previously feeling pretty confident about, from hoping that people furious with their fucked up commutes won’t attempt to fuck up other people by pushing and shoving and yelling) evaporates by the time we embrace. We walk and talk, and suddenly the entire day has turned around. The sun is now no longer something that makes me squint and sweat, but a source of warmth and brightness. Again, I wasn’t exaggerating when I called Miri an amazing friend.
We venture into SoHo and stumble upon an art gallery. The walls inside are white with a seemingly endless array of showcased paintings, and there’s so much playing space within that it would be a shame if this gallery had never hosted a launch party or experimental movement piece.
Miri and I play a game — a personal favorite of mine to suggest when wandering around a museum exhibit. The game is simple: you and your friend split up for a while to observe as many pieces as you individually desire and peruse the accompanying descriptions. After an unspecified but mutually comfortable amount of time, you both reconvene to reveal to the other which artwork within the exhibit you would purchase if given the chance.
When our game was over, we notice that the gallery manager seemed to have caught on long ago. He then comes up to me and Miri as we happily look at a particular painting together and proceeds to give us a very fascinating backstory to the work. We ask questions and he politely — and patiently! — answers.
The gentleman then points to a staircase and encourages us to check out the artwork on the lower level. Miri and I look at each other: Another floor! Another adventure! The manager escorts us and mentions that, in the back, there are additional paintings to check out, but they couldn’t fit onto the walls. Miri and I are impressed; we are even more so when he mentions, quite casually, the gallery’s possession of a few Picassos.
The reader should know that on any given day — but especially this day — Miri and I could not fool the average New Yorker into thinking that we could ever afford art pieces from galleries where the prices are not even listed on the accompanying descriptions. This manager knew that, and probably acknowledged the fact to himself the moment he greeted me and Miri upon our first steps into the gallery. And yet, he was happy to give us a delightful tour of both floors, answer all of our amateurish questions on visual arts, and chuckle when we both fangirled over the design of the bottom floor (with couches and coffee table still remaining, it is quite apparent that the space used to be a living room, and the hospitality of the residence previously situated there has, evidently, not left the space even after its metamorphosis into a glamorously minimalistic home of paintings and sketches for the city’s upper class to check out and purchase). I would entreat the reader to name something more gratifyingly heartwarming in this metropolis than strangers taking time out of their work day to do something this kind not out of obligation, but out of a generous inclination to share some sort of special and specific knowledge with others. The art gallery’s manager is living proof of this humanity-affirming phenomenon.
Afterwards, it’s time for lunch! Miri and I head downtown for a few more blocks. As I look around for a new restaurant to try out, Miri gets a phone call: it’s from Sabra. The latter is sick and has an hour-long commute back from work (probably with delays, as previously mentioned) before she can get to the safe serenity of her apartment to eat and sleep; the former is more than happy to be there for her.
But, almost immediately, it’s apparent that Sabra did not call to ask Miri to come over and take care of her. Rather, it seems as though just the comfort of hearing her girlfriend’s voice while giving a quick update on the day’s otherwise mundane events is more than enough for Sabra.
How often do we get to gleefully witness such simple trust between two lovers in a committed relationship? Sabra was in my acting class during my final semester at Tisch. I adore her, and I love Miri. I can’t tell you how much my heart jumps for joy when I see them together, and — at the risk of sounding too mawkish for my millennial existence — I can’t begin to explain to you how much my heart fills with happiness when I hear two people as great as Sabra and Miri say “I love you” to one another and thinking to myself, “this is so pure and perfect.”
When Miri hangs up, I notice a menu outside of a quaint-looking restaurant. Miri looks at a sign next to the menu that reads in big, adorable letters: “Welcome to Our Home.” Naturally, we simultaneously decide that this is absolutely the place — and no other place will do, now! — to spend the next hour and a half.
I suppose some fellow patrons of the restaurant assumed that this was my and Miri’s first time ever eating out (or being in public, for that matter), because we simply could not stop gushing over the loveliness of the place’s warm vibes and unpretentious design. In this wonderful space, large and lush potted plants were as ubiquitous as framed paintings of dogs of all shapes and sizes on the walls. The late June afternoon’s sunlight was streaming in, and there was plenty of room between tables without it being alienating.
We sit down, and when our waiter leaves after handing us the menus, Miri whispers to me that, to my left, “That’s Adam DeVine!” We look around and see people smiling at one another across their tables, leisurely enjoying their coffees and late lunches (or, in our case, 2pm breakfasts). Behind me, next to the open kitchen and WC’s, is a wall-length mirror. Servers and bussers are constantly buzzing about it, but never to the point of chaos. This place is happening, but it does so without thumping music or cocktails in front of each patron. If you’re looking to shoot a rom-com feature or the meet-cute for your short film, this might be a restaurant to keep in mind.
The act of eating (anything other than celery sticks) nourishes your body with calories. But it’s also common for people to want to nap after a meal, particularly with a perfect serving of comfort food. The food hits the spot, and you feel full, complete, satisfied for at least a long while.
I always feel a bit funny when going to bed and feeling as though I have not fully seized the day. There’s been something missing, or there’s still an activity to be done, a task to be fulfilled, a conversation to be had. There’s more to do, more to say, more to happen.
After outings and meals with Miri, it seems as though the stars and cosmos have aligned for my mind, my body, and my soul to all simultaneously feel full, complete, and satisfied. Whatever our conversations were, I feel as though those minutes were the pinnacle of my day. I’m so mellowed out, content, and ready to hit the hay after hanging out with her. She’s the farthest thing from boring, but I would bet that most anyone who knows Miri even vaguely well would not mind comfortably falling asleep with her in the room, even if it’s at a party (I have done this, and Sarah was also there.) I think this is a great sign to help you tell if someone is your soul sister.
A week later, my phone buzzes ominously and I read this text from Miri:
“Love, I should let you know I’m home [in Mexico City] right now and my visa got rejected. Not sure what the future holds or when I’ll go back to New York next but I hope I can see you in the near future! Thank you for making me so happy. Every day I saw you was truly special.”
My heart, apparently now at the weight of an anvil, drops to the pit of my stomach. Miri rightfully doesn’t delineate further after I ask her what happened, and looking back on the texts now, I can barely remember much other than “embassy” and “it all happened so fast” and “really sudden” and “whoa.”
I am utterly stunned that, just a week prior, we were having a Miri-Zennie outing like we always do. Now, like Miri, I truly am “not sure what the future holds”, or when I’ll be able to see her next or why this had to happen the way it did or why it even had to happen at all to someone as good as her.
But what I urge the reader to note from Miri’s text is her wording of this specific part: “[…] or when I’ll go back to New York next […].”
“When.”
Not “if.”
A definitive “when.”
See you soon. I’ll be back. Until next time.
“Back to New York.”
Be back home later.
I am a skeptical person, but when I read that — I trusted it.
I trust her.
Always have, always will.
The next conversation we had a few days later included the above photo attachment and a “wish you were here.” Miri was sipping on a strawberrita on a rooftop bar in her hometown, enjoying life and taking in an objectively flawless view. She also sent me a selfie, and the expression on her face was one of both contentedness with the present and excitement for the future. The drink looked celebratory; the girl looked unstoppable.
III. Fish (280 Bleecker Street)
Last month, Miri enthusiastically gave me the best update I could have ever dreamed of: “I’M COMING BACK!”
It is now September, and (because I cannot resist adding a platitude in any situation where I am too excited to creatively express such extreme emotion) a lot has happened. To answer the reader’s probable question that is, What is Miri up to now?, the answer is that she’s pursuing her master’s degree in media management at Metropolitan College of New York (because, as a fellow female artist of color, I know that the most valuable gift you can give to yourself and to others is opportunity), she’s still going strong with Sabra (who’s now in her senior year at NYU), and she still gets to call that aforementioned apartment in Washington Heights (in addition to her house in Mexico City) her home.
Another question the reader may have is, How was Miri’s summer in Mexico? As jarring as her forced departure from America back in July was, Miri now considers the progression of events in these past few months to be, retrospectively, a blessing in disguise.
“Because Trump has publicly expressed strong interest in getting rid of NAFTA, the visa that I’ve been working for might not actually exist anymore. That was something I only began to realize when I was already back home in Mexico. Looking back now, it’s good that it happened this way. I got to refocus my goals and look into other visas that I had not previously considered, and I figured that, for the kind of life I want, grad school makes the most sense. I also just miss going to classes and learning in that kind of environment, you know?” I do know, and I couldn’t be prouder of Miri for making the never easy decision to continue working hard in the world of higher education in one of the most financially, artistically, and socially competitive cities in this country.
“My grandma passed away a few weeks ago, as well. It was really sad, and hard on my family. But, ultimately, I’m grateful that I got to spend time with her this summer and be there with her, especially on the day before she left us.”
A pause. “I really am happy that I was able to spend this amount of time back home. Just the duration of time I got to spend back in Mexico wouldn’t have been possible otherwise if things had gone differently.”
And now, moving forward? “I’m glad to be back here and see everyone. One step at a time.”
Miri is one of my boyfriend’s favorites of my friends to hang out with, two-on-one date style (but, instead of only one person, EVERYONE gets a rose!!). At this point, I doubt the reader needs additional reasons for why Evan adores Miri or why, when I told him that she was back in New York, he insisted that we all get together as soon as humanly possible.
Evan, Miri, and I met up on Bleecker Street last week for a glorious restaurant’s first ever semiannual Lobster Fest event. Equipped with the confidence that multiple glasses of beer and chardonnay usually bring young twenty-somethings, this is my and Miri’s first time ordering a whole lobster as an entree. It is also, for the both of us, the first time we get to wear the lobster bib.
I ask Miri how her parents are doing in the wake of the devastating earthquake that struck central Mexico earlier this month. She tells me that, although her mom and dad felt the quake, they were ultimately fine. The coastal cities and towns, on the other hand, fared far worse.
As always, she thanks me for asking. This time, however, she also expresses gratitude for those in America who care about international affairs that may not directly affect the States. She then looks up at the flat screen TV behind the bar and notices that there’s coverage of the aftermath of the earthquake playing right now. “I love that a place like this has their TV on a Spanish-speaking channel.” Evan and I turn around to see and cannot help but agree.
A week later, in the aftermath of Hurricane Maria wiping out Puerto Rico’s power for an estimated four to six months, I send out a mass text to all of my New Jersey/New York friends and family with information from the City of New York’s government (currently doing more to assist in this particular humanitarian crisis than the federal government) on how to help out with the relief efforts for the 3.5 million Americans desperately in need of food, water, and supplies. Miri responds to my text as so: “I’m in love with this. Literally gonna raid my apartment and the drug store.” And then: “Thank you for this!!” Every time she says something like that to me, I know no response more appropriate or truthful than this: “Thank you. For everything. For being you, and for being there for me. For being everything.”
