Again.
It’s not news. I miss New York. I miss it a lot. The flashes are sometimes like those of your first boyfriend, when you suddenly recall a moment with him or being somewhere together. But you have to exemplify the moment about 100 times to make it feel like missing New York.
I don’t miss places or moments as much in the winter. Once May hurls itself into my path, though, my brain breathes in those chilly mornings and soppy afternoons of my life down Bedford Avenue. Now, I can’t imagine how silly Williamsburg has become. I haven’t been there since I was four months pregnant, so I took it in sober, but I know it’s not the same. Our friends are there and they tell me… how it’s changed. But whatevs. Today, I’m remembering the traditional morning, early morning, on Lorimer Street.
I usually start at the park. I always ran in the morning, even hungover, I forced myself to the track across from McCarren Park pool. One time, a swat team landed in a helicopter in the field between the track. They were searching for a murdered girl. Everyone just kept walking their ovals around the track and I had to ask a bystander what was going on. That’s New York. It happens and nobody pays attention. Yet, those people not paying attention… they still have their eye on the action because it’s the only place I’d want to be if something awful happened again. New Yorkers take care of each other and do it right. They’re not scared. They know when to act.
After the run, the humidity starts. If it’s Saturday, I might run longer, further south into Williamsburg, and take in the hipster coffee runs. I’ll jealously salivate over the new condos and walk-ups on Driggs and surrounding streets. If only to have a terrace! Gosh, how I could have probably had one if I’d tried.
The heat is quick. I don’t mind walking around post-run looking a mess. Never do. But It’s so hot by 9 AM in the summer, even in May sometimes, you roll. I head back to Greenpoint and stroll Manhattan or run to the store for breakfast. Coffee. Matt’s waking up at home. I’ve decided it’s Saturday now as I’m writing this. Who wants to remember taking the train to work? And shelling out five bucks for a handful of grapes on Hudson and Spring?
But wait. If I WAS heading to work, that means a nice stroll through Soho. If it’s not raining, this is another favorite. I get off the train at Bowery and make my way east across the island to Hudson Street, but I take my time. All the restaurants wake up. This is when you might see a celeb, too. Early. Grabbing coffee.Walking shame. China town veggies rolling all over the streets. Cabs running over the veggies and smashing them into the road. Fertilizer. Bus boys up and down out of the cement stairs that close with iron doors for people to walk on later. Europeans having cappuccino in cafes. Store windows angled for my eyes. Delis, all crazy, with people buying lunch for later or some fresh flowers for their stupid Soho loft. Cars trying to get south to hit the Holland tunnel. Cars going north and every way you can go. Bike messengers tingling around. Dresses and bare legs and all the most amazing sandals you’ve ever seen. It’s like one big sandal party and I get to watch. No touch. Watch.
But no, step back. I want to go back to Brooklyn.Turn around and take the long way home, a four-mile walk across the bridge and back into the soundly sleeping neighborhood where I grew into an adult. For coffee and a nap and an afternoon stroll for some champagne with friends.
No rules. No guidelines. No calls to make.
