These Streets Will Make You Feel Brand New
There's something about being on streets you don't know in a place where people couldn't possibly need anything for you to keep moving. A place where almost no one knows your name, where you can wander for hours or days without a familiar place. There's something about that.
The past month, maybe six weeks, maybe longer, has been crazy. I was getting ready to go to my first national conference, and there were so many things to do. Western blots that took forever to work (so long that my boss half-canceled my vacation, our 9-year-anniversary vacation). Countless PCRs, things that weren't where they were supposed to be. Work that I thought would be done in a certain amount of time, when it really turned into that-certain-amount-plus-two-weeks. It was so fucking frustrating.
And then the conference came. And then the conference went. And then I left the city where the conference was, hopped on a train for one hour, and got picked up by one of the best friends I have in one of the best cities in the world.
***
Things are best when there aren't any expectations, no plans. When people asked what I would be doing there, I just said that I would be seeing friends. That was it: me, some friends, beer or good food. Those were all the plans I had.
When I got in town, I was so keyed up. I'd had a loud verbal altercation on the conference shuttle bus that morning, an altercation with a douchebag that had plenty of "FUCKING"s and a few "GODDAMN"s, and I was in a fighting mood. For a month, six weeks, I'd been in a fighting mood: irritable, grumpy. Sleepless, over-caffeinated, tired of a whole gamut of bullshit.
Then a subway ride to Washington Heights in a warm coat and a hat; a walk up to the roof; the sparks of a dying lighter in a corner made of bricks to shield the flame from the wind; then the simultaneous rush to the brain, the rush of the wind across the roof, and the boy's hand over my shoulder pointing out the Empire State Building. That moment when everything that has made you worry just falls away. I breathed in the cold air. Breathed out all the air I'd been holding in for six long weeks.
***
The last time I'd been there, I was with my mother. I was 12. We went to Broadway shows, museums, to see the Rockettes. That was all the memory, all of the pretense. That was the only thing I had.
Roberto had to work for 8 hours on Saturday, so I hopped on the subway by myself, took it to Columbus Circle and hopped back off. Hopped all day, 8 hours, down city streets. I punched my 1-Stupid-Tourist-Thing card with a reuben at Carnegie deli; the other people at the table looked sad for me, that I was alone, but I wasn't sad at all. I didn't have to say anything to anyone. Just, "No, this is the only thing I want." "Ticket for one adult." "A mocha, please." And that was it.
I went to MOMA and saw everything, wandering quietly through the galleries for two hours at my own pace. I played a game with myself, guessing the artists from as far away as possible. I nailed a Francis Bacon triptych from a good distance, a Klimt from far away. On my way back to the Klimt, I realized that I had almost missed Les Demoiselles D'Avignon and The Starry Night. I saw a Magritte, several by Man Ray and Du Champ. Everything I wanted to see was there, and more. It was so amazing, so perfect.
I went back to Roberto's, feet sore from walking more than 40 blocks for a fantastic cup of coffee, burning time. I watched trashy tv with his roommates, and then stood up.
"Oh, do you have somewhere else to go?" one asked, then immediately apologized, "Oh, I'm so sorry, that's none of my business!" I smiled at the politeness. No one I know is ever that polite. It was so sweet, so refreshing. I laughed and put on my coat, walked out the door in the dark and back to the subway.
***
"I conquered the subway," I announce. "I took the C train to the 1, and it brought me right here."
"Oh, so you rode the 1 all the way here?" asked a new friend, a friend-of-a-friend who'd been laughing with me all night.
"Mmhmm," I say, proud, "Yep, all by myself. Figured it out."
Roberto leans in close to my ear, "He's making fun of you for not taking the express train." I wrinkle my nose and look back at this new boy. He cracks a smile. I laugh. We all laugh, two pints down and not at all done for the night. A table of champions, me and three gay boys. One from high school, one from college, one new. We don't stop laughing.
I get terribly tipsy, find my hands in someone else's warm hands, brushing someone's arm. There is the immediate comfort of being physically close to someone who would never want to fuck you. You sink in, knock back more drinks, keep getting warmer.
"Why don't you move here?" they whine, the sangria pleading through them. "I wish you lived here. Please don't leave!" I teach them about blow job eyes, we top off each other's glasses. We argue over who pays for what, step out of the restaurant. Leave with kisses on the cheek. Get back on the subway, fold my legs up under me and turn toward Roberto. Hold onto his arm as we go back home.
***
We stayed up late with his polite roommate, a pot philosopher. I sat back while the room spun around me and watched Roberto make faces. We were talking about college, about all kinds of things. Until I excused myself to the bathroom, laid down on the floor. I went back to the living room. "Here, let me tuck you in," said Roberto. Covers went over me, tucked under my feet, kiss on the forehead. "Goodnight," he whispered, and went to bed. After he was gone, I got back up, ran to the bathroom and puked my guts out.
Worth it. Worth every single second, every stupid choice, every ounce of alcohol and wisp of smoke.
***
On Sunday morning, I got coffee with one of my best friends from high school. We shared an omelet, good conversation. She walked me to the next friend, hailed a cab with an ease that made me feel a flash of jealousy. "This is her life," I thought, suddenly amazed.
My friend from medical school and I took a cab to the meatpacking district to eat brunch. They wouldn't serve us mimosas until noon, so we just ate instead, snagging bites of each other's meals, sharing. We shared stories and gossip, wished out loud that our least favorite person from medical school would keep a residency blog for us to make fun of. He told me to come back for New York Restaurant Week, that I always have a place to stay with him. That was what they all said, "Come back. You have a place to stay with me."
They all meant it.
***
When you're not there, you forget what the draw is. You tell yourself that it's not that special, just a collection of big buildings, a high density of people. You forget that it's built on the dreams of millions of people, and that those dreams are what makes the city so bold and beautiful. The dreams of my friends there are so bright, weaving in and out of rooftop weed smoke and drunken nights. That there's something so vibrant about the place that somehow infuses you while you are there too. That it's a special city because you can blend in with everybody else and still feel like you're important. That in a city filled with beautiful things, you start to feel a little bit beautiful too.
***
But in the end, I walked away. Roberto putting my bag in the cab, my lips on the sharp edge of his jaw, an "I love you" text exchanged as I was driven away. Then I boarded the plane and flew back to this much smaller city, where a long-suffering and amazing boy picked me up from the airport, drove me home and cuddled me to sleep.
I don't know if I could live there, but I don't know -- not anymore, not really -- that I couldn't live there. I saw the kids being raised to navigate the subways, to know which one is the express and how to get on it. Couples walking hand-in-hand into stores that don't exist within 500 miles of my city. And I could see me there, me and Joey, in an apartment somewhere deep in the city.
Either way, it was amazing. Perfect. Everything I needed and have been needing for so long now. A chance to disappear. A chance to not have to worry -- at least not for a few days -- about even trying to get it right.
The past month, maybe six weeks, maybe longer, has been crazy. I was getting ready to go to my first national conference, and there were so many things to do. Western blots that took forever to work (so long that my boss half-canceled my vacation, our 9-year-anniversary vacation). Countless PCRs, things that weren't where they were supposed to be. Work that I thought would be done in a certain amount of time, when it really turned into that-certain-amount-plus-two-weeks. It was so fucking frustrating.
And then the conference came. And then the conference went. And then I left the city where the conference was, hopped on a train for one hour, and got picked up by one of the best friends I have in one of the best cities in the world.
***
Things are best when there aren't any expectations, no plans. When people asked what I would be doing there, I just said that I would be seeing friends. That was it: me, some friends, beer or good food. Those were all the plans I had.
When I got in town, I was so keyed up. I'd had a loud verbal altercation on the conference shuttle bus that morning, an altercation with a douchebag that had plenty of "FUCKING"s and a few "GODDAMN"s, and I was in a fighting mood. For a month, six weeks, I'd been in a fighting mood: irritable, grumpy. Sleepless, over-caffeinated, tired of a whole gamut of bullshit.
Then a subway ride to Washington Heights in a warm coat and a hat; a walk up to the roof; the sparks of a dying lighter in a corner made of bricks to shield the flame from the wind; then the simultaneous rush to the brain, the rush of the wind across the roof, and the boy's hand over my shoulder pointing out the Empire State Building. That moment when everything that has made you worry just falls away. I breathed in the cold air. Breathed out all the air I'd been holding in for six long weeks.
***
The last time I'd been there, I was with my mother. I was 12. We went to Broadway shows, museums, to see the Rockettes. That was all the memory, all of the pretense. That was the only thing I had.
Roberto had to work for 8 hours on Saturday, so I hopped on the subway by myself, took it to Columbus Circle and hopped back off. Hopped all day, 8 hours, down city streets. I punched my 1-Stupid-Tourist-Thing card with a reuben at Carnegie deli; the other people at the table looked sad for me, that I was alone, but I wasn't sad at all. I didn't have to say anything to anyone. Just, "No, this is the only thing I want." "Ticket for one adult." "A mocha, please." And that was it.
I went to MOMA and saw everything, wandering quietly through the galleries for two hours at my own pace. I played a game with myself, guessing the artists from as far away as possible. I nailed a Francis Bacon triptych from a good distance, a Klimt from far away. On my way back to the Klimt, I realized that I had almost missed Les Demoiselles D'Avignon and The Starry Night. I saw a Magritte, several by Man Ray and Du Champ. Everything I wanted to see was there, and more. It was so amazing, so perfect.
I went back to Roberto's, feet sore from walking more than 40 blocks for a fantastic cup of coffee, burning time. I watched trashy tv with his roommates, and then stood up.
"Oh, do you have somewhere else to go?" one asked, then immediately apologized, "Oh, I'm so sorry, that's none of my business!" I smiled at the politeness. No one I know is ever that polite. It was so sweet, so refreshing. I laughed and put on my coat, walked out the door in the dark and back to the subway.
***
"I conquered the subway," I announce. "I took the C train to the 1, and it brought me right here."
"Oh, so you rode the 1 all the way here?" asked a new friend, a friend-of-a-friend who'd been laughing with me all night.
"Mmhmm," I say, proud, "Yep, all by myself. Figured it out."
Roberto leans in close to my ear, "He's making fun of you for not taking the express train." I wrinkle my nose and look back at this new boy. He cracks a smile. I laugh. We all laugh, two pints down and not at all done for the night. A table of champions, me and three gay boys. One from high school, one from college, one new. We don't stop laughing.
I get terribly tipsy, find my hands in someone else's warm hands, brushing someone's arm. There is the immediate comfort of being physically close to someone who would never want to fuck you. You sink in, knock back more drinks, keep getting warmer.
"Why don't you move here?" they whine, the sangria pleading through them. "I wish you lived here. Please don't leave!" I teach them about blow job eyes, we top off each other's glasses. We argue over who pays for what, step out of the restaurant. Leave with kisses on the cheek. Get back on the subway, fold my legs up under me and turn toward Roberto. Hold onto his arm as we go back home.
***
We stayed up late with his polite roommate, a pot philosopher. I sat back while the room spun around me and watched Roberto make faces. We were talking about college, about all kinds of things. Until I excused myself to the bathroom, laid down on the floor. I went back to the living room. "Here, let me tuck you in," said Roberto. Covers went over me, tucked under my feet, kiss on the forehead. "Goodnight," he whispered, and went to bed. After he was gone, I got back up, ran to the bathroom and puked my guts out.
Worth it. Worth every single second, every stupid choice, every ounce of alcohol and wisp of smoke.
***
On Sunday morning, I got coffee with one of my best friends from high school. We shared an omelet, good conversation. She walked me to the next friend, hailed a cab with an ease that made me feel a flash of jealousy. "This is her life," I thought, suddenly amazed.
My friend from medical school and I took a cab to the meatpacking district to eat brunch. They wouldn't serve us mimosas until noon, so we just ate instead, snagging bites of each other's meals, sharing. We shared stories and gossip, wished out loud that our least favorite person from medical school would keep a residency blog for us to make fun of. He told me to come back for New York Restaurant Week, that I always have a place to stay with him. That was what they all said, "Come back. You have a place to stay with me."
They all meant it.
***
When you're not there, you forget what the draw is. You tell yourself that it's not that special, just a collection of big buildings, a high density of people. You forget that it's built on the dreams of millions of people, and that those dreams are what makes the city so bold and beautiful. The dreams of my friends there are so bright, weaving in and out of rooftop weed smoke and drunken nights. That there's something so vibrant about the place that somehow infuses you while you are there too. That it's a special city because you can blend in with everybody else and still feel like you're important. That in a city filled with beautiful things, you start to feel a little bit beautiful too.
***
But in the end, I walked away. Roberto putting my bag in the cab, my lips on the sharp edge of his jaw, an "I love you" text exchanged as I was driven away. Then I boarded the plane and flew back to this much smaller city, where a long-suffering and amazing boy picked me up from the airport, drove me home and cuddled me to sleep.
I don't know if I could live there, but I don't know -- not anymore, not really -- that I couldn't live there. I saw the kids being raised to navigate the subways, to know which one is the express and how to get on it. Couples walking hand-in-hand into stores that don't exist within 500 miles of my city. And I could see me there, me and Joey, in an apartment somewhere deep in the city.
Either way, it was amazing. Perfect. Everything I needed and have been needing for so long now. A chance to disappear. A chance to not have to worry -- at least not for a few days -- about even trying to get it right.
posted by Another Chance to Get It Right at
10:05 PM
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