My First Day in New York

(A Tribute to Three Fabulous Years in the Big City)

I wrote this several weeks ago, closer to the time it was actually my three-year anniversary with New York (5.21.09), but just got around to finishing it…

I arrived in New York City on a Sunday afternoon in May with two overstuffed suitcases and the widest eyes you’ve ever seen. It was my second time in Manhattan, and I felt like I was reconnecting with a long lost lover, one I had never stopped thinking about, and one I would eventually fall madly in love with.

My morning had gone awry with an incident involving airline authority and poor footwear decisions, but after days of packing and months of planning and years of fantasizing, I had finally made it.  “Made it” simply in that I had arrived safely and expectantly. In reality, I had no job, no permanent residence, no close group of friends and no idea what New York had in store for me. Actually “making it” would take some serious work.

The shuttle ride from Newark Airport to Port Authority was a blur of bridges and tunnels, but I distinctly remember catching a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline as we traveled through New Jersey to our destination. I felt like I was coming home, not just arriving, and I grinned like a blithering idiot squished between strangers in a cramped van.  (To this day, whenever I see that iconic landscape, be it in photographs, on the big screen or from a taxi on the Queensboro Bridge, I always think to myself: You live there, lucky girl.)

My mission upon exiting the shuttle at 42nd Street and 8th Avenue was simple: find your dad’s old friend whom you’ve never met or seen in a clusterfuck of people in a city you don’t know well. Dad’s friend, Cleveland, had graciously offered to let me stay with him and his family until I had everything figured out – a frighteningly obscure frame of time.

Luckily, we found each other sooner than expected, and Cleveland immediately whisked us underground where the following moments only play in fast-forward. Cue montage of zooming trains and muddled crowds and the two of us walking, standing, talking, sitting, transferring, rushing, moving in and out of the subway system. I tried to keep up as if I could handle the haste like a real New Yorker, and before I knew it, we were climbing out of the station near Church and Chambers.

Cleveland, his wife and two young daughters lived in a beautiful TriBeCa loft with gigantic windows and hardwood floors and more square footage than most New Yorkers could ever dream of – the living room alone was the size of some of the bars I frequent now. This would be my indefinite safe haven until I landed on my feet – in 5-inch heels, of course – and I trusted everything would fall into place before I overstayed my welcome. 

More than anything that Sunday afternoon, I remember feeling like I was truly an adult; that no matter what the future held, I had the guts to leave everything I’d ever known behind and create a life of my own in a city that could make or break me. There was a sense of maturity I discovered that day – even in just traveling alone – that I knew would stick with me throughout this entire experience. I was confident that I would become the chic twentysomething professional I envisioned, and any hurdle along the way would only make me a savvier New Yorker.

Cleveland took me to the girls’ bedroom in the back of the loft, which was full of sunlight and overflowing bookshelves and stuffed animals, and the most incredible treehouse-like bunkbed I’d ever seen. The oldest daughter was away at camp for the week, so I’d be crashing on the top bunk until she returned.

Completely exhausted from traveling and the general stress of a one-way ticket, I quickly settled into my new room and climbed the bunkbed’s mini staircase for a nap. There I was, finally feeling like an honest-to-God adult, ready for a big-girl career and a big-girl life in a big-girl world, and I was sleeping in a treehouse surrounded by dolls and fluffy things and children’s books.

But it couldn’t have been more perfect, and possibly more telling. (Six months later, I’d be writing and editing children’s books, just like the ones within inches of myself.)

That was the first day of the rest of my life, and the days that followed were almost unimaginable. I immediately found a great little room in an East Village apartment on 4th Street. I was hired on the spot for a paid editorial internship at a reputable book publisher in Chelsea. I explored. I got lost. I met new people. I fell in love with every inch of the city. I even kissed a cute New Yorker beneath a starless Manhattan sky, all by day three. It was an unreal situation, and the lack of struggle in my initial pursuit ultimately gave me a false sense of security about what to expect down the road. But even with several bewildering rough patches throughout my residence, I have always been one lucky girl surviving and thriving in Manhattan.

Six years ago I wrote: “Something tells me that New York City is my destiny, where I’ll find life, love and happiness…” And I think I’ve done exactly that. My last three years in New York have been filled with spontaneity and excitement and passion and self-discovery – and every day I fall even more in love with this amazing city. Just when I think I couldn’t possibly fall anymore, Manhattan quickly finds the simplest, sweetest ways to fill me with perfect, untroubled happiness…Sunday afternoons in Bryant Park, the Empire State Building at night, rooftop cocktails in fancy dresses, cupcakes in the West Village, weekend outings with the girls, celebrity encounters, walks along the Hudson. The list is infinite, which is why this blog serves as my ongoing love letter to the city.

Turning 25 this past May was mildly shocking (5 measly years from 30, omg!), but it’s a milestone I can be proud of because I’m at such a rewarding, perfect place in my life (and I know it’s only going to get better!). I have a job I genuinely enjoy waking up for, one that allows me to be creative every single day and one that has reassuring faith in my talents. I have a perfect little Midtown apartment that keeps my ass in shape with five grueling flights of stairs (the longest part of my commute). I have a roommate who is one of the best friends a girl could ever ask for (despite her disturbing relationships with felines), and a group of incredible girlfriends who understand me and who love me and who never turn me down for happy hour. I have a social life that keeps my picture-posing skillz on par and never fails to generate amazing stories. I have a wonderful family that is full of unconditional love and support – especially from my parents. I have a passion for words and writing and language that I hope to one day actually put to good use. And more than anything, I have the freedom to live my life any way I wish, with no serious commitments (children, husbands, mortgages, other stuff I associate with your thirties), and that thought alone makes me very, very, very happy. 

I’ve always said your twenties are solely for yourself – to figure out who the hell you are before anyone else can. I know I still have a lot to learn, but when it comes to love, New York is truly the best boyfriend I’ve ever had (no offense to my human exes). I know it’s cheesy and cliché and very Carrie Bradshaw, but it’s the only way to say it. The city is so romantic and charming and energetic – everything a girl could want in someone she spends all of her time with. Sure, sometimes he’s slightly aggressive and unpredictable and wild and tough, but that’s what I love about him – he keeps me on my toes and he constantly challenges and inspires me. And no matter what, he always calls when he says he will.