Someday, maybe, if I am very lucky, I will understand why leaving NYC makes me feel as though I am being forced from the womb, or torn from my home. After all, I’ve only been there three times, for rather short visits each time. I grew up in Southern California, and always felt quite alien there. But as soon as I am in a taxi or bus speeding from an airport into Manhattan, I can breathe peacefully. My shoulders drop as my pulse quickens, and the rhythms of the City envelop me. So when the chance came up last week to go for that third visit, I jumped, and two days later I was on the plane.
And NYC loved me back. July weather is not normally so pleasant. A friend said that I had brought Northern California weather with me, and so it seemed. I didn’t break a sweat once, not even when walking briskly for 4 hours at a time! It was so stunning out that I couldn’t bear to go inside to see a show, or even go underground on the subway.
How to explain that my feet have always known the way without a map? Grand Central Station, Rockefeller Center, Central Park, The Met. Everyone in a good mood this time, lucky tourists and locals alike. Babies/strollers/moms/nannies everywhere. Cigarette smoke. The quick click-clack of high heels supporting incredibly-toned calves across uneven sidewalks. Sirens, horns, questions, answers, fingers pointing, heads nodding. Violins and boom-boxes. Fountains and jackhammers. A transfusion for my soul.
I dined at Tabla, finally, while overlooking a concert in Madison Park. I grabbed a burger at Le Parker Meridien’s burger joint and ate in it Central Park with a friend. I went to Virgil’s for the third time – for tradition’s sake, and thought the food was actually very good, though that may have been an effect of the second margarita – strongest margarita in the world, apparently. I ate a 25 cent banana from a fruit cart while I sat on a bench in the middle of Hello Kitty sculptures. I walked by Magnolia Bakery without going in. There will just have to be a next time, and soon.
When I leave Rome, I sob in the taxi and whisper endearments in Italian as the buildings fade in the distance. The confusing passionate lover I can’t bear to leave, but I know isn’t ultimately good for me. When I leave New York City, strangely proud to be an American, yet frustrated at the long-distance nature of our relationship, I straighten my shoulders and lift my head, determined to make it all work out. Some things just can’t be explained.
