Spacity
I have this weird, inexplicable fear that once I left New York, there wouldn’t be anyone to take on my traditions. And that’s what would really signal that I fully left.
Well, that and once I clean all of my clothes from the city pollutants, subway pole grime, and bodega sandwich smells.
I’m not sure why that’s my main worry. The traditions themselves aren’t the best, but for some reason, the day after I announced to my loved ones that I was finally jumping ship, I woke up early with a random, albeit paralyzing thought: I won’t be able to see them blow-up the balloons for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade anymore.
Immediately I was thrown back to a fresh heartbreak, a cold November evening, and myself in new sneakers walking down the throng of people lined up to see Spongebob Squarepants and Pikachu come to 50-foot-life. This was at least five years ago but every single step felt solid as I marched into the awake world. I haven’t gone to see this parade prep in years, having now the income to go back home to see family, but for some reason this miniscule scene came back to me.
Because, yes, I left New York. And while I’ve been bitter towards New York for some time, actually putting pen to social media post has made the feeling all the more real to me.
As with any ending, you trace your steps from the beginning to see exactly what happened. My relationship with New York started strong.
I moved to the city without friends or really any means, but with an unbolstered conviction that I’d at least be happy and occupied here, that I’d grow old here. And yes, that I’d probably die there. A fellow Georgia friend would tell me about her own plans to go back, and I’d bristle at the thought. When I told her a few months ago, that we were probably going to leave too, her frank face looked surprised and she spoke in italics, “You’re leaving?”
Yep. Me. The one who moved there and planned to be found dead in her fifth floor walk up near her dog.
Dark, but that was very true.
In early November they start setting up the metal bleachers for the parade along Central Park West. The orange and brown leaves start to fall and dot the metal planks but are quickly swept away each morning. And usually children see it and think “Fun! Must climb!” before doing just that, purely because of its novelty.
Because the bleachers eat up so much sidewalk. Soo much. And it ruins the flow of those entering Central Park via the 72nd Street entrance, right by Strawberry Fields. Now the wide cobble stoned sidewalks are narrowed, now the picturesque stoned walls and fall-colors are juxtaposed against really sharp metal tracks. Now there’s riot gates all over.
The sight of all of this banality brings me such delight around this time of the year.
When I lived closer I would go there to sit and take phone calls and journal, eat a bagel, cry, feel happy, walk, read. Then when I lived further away, it became an event to go, sit, and enjoy the cold and the colorful leaves. New York’s own traffic of black cars, Citibike cyclists, and yellow taxi cabs, my personal parade.
The benches are sometimes gated off with riot barriers. Sometimes workers are standing off to the side so passersby can’t quite tell if you’re allowed to sit and climb or if they should stand clear. Maybe that’s why not too many take advantage of the increase in seats on a regular walkway.
That or everyone has really busy lives.
I continuously found myself vying for space in New York. Whether that was the subway platform, the subway itself, the coffee shop near me, or the bustling sidewalk. The physicality seeped into the mentality: I was constantly looking for a new restaurant to try so I could have it to myself. I needed to get on the subway before that guy — the one I glimpsed in my periphery— or I’d feel like I’ve let the world step all over me. I had to binge watch this show I’m mildly interested in to keep up with the general consciousness.
I think that’s why I loved the parade bleachers so much. The rules about them are hazy so no one usually sits too long or the fact that they’re right against Central Park means autumnal and more notable attractions are right behind.
But every once and while, you’ll find a solo sitter there, enjoying coffee cart coffee, chatting on their phone and watching the hop-on, hop-off tours go by. And the crisp, fresh day feels like a giant exhale of ah, space.
