6 Months To The Day
Photo Credit: Michael Berwin
You can go back to the places you once loved. Sometimes they’re same, yet you never will be.
The blemished white tiles and the occasional squeak of a sneaker against them. The Hudson Books where next week an author will be standing, quietly signing copies of his own novel to pass the time. A shuttered coffee stand where folks will queue with the arrival of the sun.
I wanted to run through JFK. And probably would have, if it wasn’t for a shiny new roller bag slowing my pace.
It’s one of the largest airports in the world and still, I felt it. My eyes were watery and darted around, substituting the act of breathing for my lungs.
Two years and six months ago, I disembarked a plane coming from Los Angeles with two suitcases in tow and eight boxes on the way. It was winter, and I remember that I wasn’t dressed warmly enough.
It was now much later and happened to be July. The layers of clothing wilted immediately as I strode purposefully to the cabstand. My skin felt full of moisture. It was palpable, the cigarette butts and exhaust fumes and trash rolled into a misty, odoriferous stench.
The cab driver took off like a bat out of hell. I sat on the edge of my seat, twitching fingers gripping the worn leather edges. Part of me wanted to tell him to go faster. I rolled down the window, waiting for the possibility of a warm breeze to hit my face.
We zipped through lower Manhattan, coming to a screeching stop at the occasional red light. It was nearly midnight but plenty of people were still on the road. I fondly observed the buildings and intersections that used to be part of my daily routine. It all whizzed by as my stomach began to unravel. Another familiar feeling.
Thirty-two hours in the Apple.
I tend to do one of two things when I’m here. Make peace or cause trouble.
The van skidded to a stop at the entrance of my hotel. I slid the door open and promptly threw up all over the sidewalk. I unloaded the contents of my stomach about two feet shy from the trash pickup. “Convenient,” I thought.
We were two blocks from where I used to live.
It was six months to the day that I left that apartment behind to build a new life on the west coast.
To provide you with some very brief context, I’ve moved four times in the last three years. Two of these moves were cross-country and two were cross-borough. It’s felt like college all over again, except this time I’m in my thirties and doing the exact opposite of everyone else my age.
I already tried to disable words like “engaged, ”“married,” and “baby” from showing up in my Facebook feed. More years are ahead of me, and then I’ll be older. It’s scary to make choices that only feel right.
The next morning I treated myself to breakfast at Balthazar. A bite of warm croissant melted softly in my mouth as I slid my bottom forward on the red vinyl seat, unfolding a physical copy of the Times at a perfectly wonderful ninety degrees from line of sight.
I took a tiny sip of a steaming hot americano and imagined the corners of my eyes turning upwards as I looked around.
Waiters bustled about in starched white aprons wearing all black underneath, shiny shoes to match. Soft and loud, high and low, both conversational and business-like — the sound of morning chatter filled the air. A whirring sound followed by the sharp smell of ground coffee bean.
I wanted to linger, but signed the check and left with time to spare. On the walk to my first meeting I happened to pass an old friend on Spring and 6th. Ok, fine — this friend was a gentleman I dated, seemingly ages ago. We run into each other every couple of years, through mutual friends and random happenstance such as this.
I had been wanting to talk to him. I wanted to apologize for the way we left things back then. A part of me missed those days. His first book came out recently and I understand that he’s important now. What were the odds, that I’d see him walking the streets during my limited time in the city? I guess some things are meant to be.
I met my boss for a meeting, then tagged along to his next. We casually signed our lives away with digital wands before unflattering photos were taken and we were permitted to enter the premises.
We were ushered into an ultra-modern conference room where shimmering Grammys lined the walls. The entire place smelled incredible, like flowers and clean sheets and the subtlest flirt of a fragrance. I normally don’t get starstruck, especially when meeting musicians. However, there are a handful of artists in this world, who, if I had the opportunity to meet in person, would likely be rendered 100% idiot upon sight.
She wasn’t there that day.
After, I challenged myself to visit my former office for old time’s sake. A former colleague and I caught up at a place on Lafayette I’d always wanted to try. I got my picture taken with a native New Yorker who walks around the city with his cat perched on his head.
That evening at Smalls in the West Village, I took in some hard bop while the rest of the world did their thing. The notes bounced around the room — deep exclamations leaping straight into the air, a firm brass pronouncement playing alongside a simmering high hat holding steady ground. The wild melodies told a story undefined and likely never to be the same again.
For the first time in a long time, I felt peace. I wasn’t showing up for anybody else but me.
Six hours later, I sat in the United Club at LGA wearing the requisite dark sunglasses and all black attire, a strong yet forgettable cup of airport coffee in my hands. I was going back home, wherever that happened to be.
I was returning the same — or perhaps better — than when I first arrived seemingly ages ago.
Through the fuck-ups, breakups, and heartache; the wins, opportunity, and inspiration, the loneliness and change, the social experiments and risks taken, and finally, the story that started it all.
Now, coming out on the other side.
Originally posted in http://losangelestonewyork.tumblr.com/
More about the author: http://nicolecifani.com
