Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to leave New York for good. Like Joan Didion or any other sane human on this planet would have done a long time ago. My imagination usually circles the drain around one fantasy: a Western European excursion that turns into an indefinite furlough. I’d find a red house boat on the canals of Amsterdam, one month would turn into one year and eventually everyone would stop counting. The local flower guy named Luuk would learn that I don’t like red tulips, but he’d insist I develop a taste for sunflowers. (And I’d listen because, really, what do I know about flowers?)
The longer I live in NYC, the more I feel like Nick Caraway racing after the Tom Buchanans of this world as they drive over principal and people. But it didn’t always feel like that. When I was a teenager, I knew I was destined for New York City. It had the pace and anonymity for a young Jersey girl who never felt at ease in a two-square mile town with more churches than gas stations. And for a long time I felt like I was keeping up with the Buchanans, but my original reasons for being here seem muddled now. I used to think that the high rises, roaring subways, foot traffic and the effortless high culture were the New York I needed. But now the only things I’d find difficult giving up are my friends and the life I’ve created here. Oh, and my bedroom – it has a chandelier!
I imagine I’d tell Luuk about my city before Amsterdam. And maybe, when I suffered an irrevocable loss or the tulips and cheese became too much to bear, I’d reminisce about New York and I’d remember the person she made me become to survive her. And perhaps, I’d want to revisit. I’d start with Google Alerts for cheap flights to NYC the way I do now for Lisbon and Delhi. And maybe I’d never buy a ticket JFK bound. But I’d eventually return to New Jersey and as my plane circled the Newark terminal, I’d see NYC and we’d have a Hubble-Katie reunion and she’d see me and we’d remember the way it was.
I would remember how everything seemed possible there. I’d remember how I kept my ABC intern ID (shhh! don’t tell them) because I knew I’d be back, and weeks later I was. I’d remember how I unwittingly moved into my first slumlord apartment with three strangers. I’d remember how I stole my second (first!) kiss in a bar with more Chads on a sticky dance floor than on the Stock Exchange Floor. I’d remember how my roommate saved me from a fire in that same said slumlord apartment. I’d remember how it’s the place where I fell in love for the first time and had my heart broken before I could even put in my contacts. And how I couldn’t go back to that slumlord apartment. I’d remember that a guy threw a blueberry muffin at me on the one train, I moved to Queens and I learned how to move on.
I think all of this reminiscing would make me miss New York and possibly consider moving back. But if New York has taught me anything, it’s that I can’t go back. Instead, I’d recognize that New York was something I did, but it was no long a part of me.
For reference, please find the final scene of The Way We Were: https://www.dailymotion.com/video/xjex7m
Persuaging 