Well, it’s been a week since I’ve been back in NYC. I’ve done so many things:
- Saw Miss Saigon (I’m obsessed. See it NOW!)
- Indulged in happy hour at a hipster bar in the gentrified part of town (it’s still cute, doe)
- Got my first massage (I’ve been missing out!)
- Frolicked around Spanish Harlem (PR food is the best)
- Ate lots of arepas (#VenezuelaLibre)
After all of this fun, with my friends back to their normal schedules, I’m left sitting on my new bed, a couch in an apartment that belongs to a friend of a friend. I have no private space of my own in this place, but I like it. It’s spacious and in a “good” part of Washington Heights. “Good” means there are fewer PoCs and more hipster bars.
As I dash about the city from doctor appointments to job interviews to laundromats to Target (I need cheap furniture), I think about the past few months. My life was essentially on hold while living in Georgia. I was stripped from all familiarity, so to come back to NYC, my home, should be thrilling right??
Yes and no. I love NYC. My heart beats with the chug chug of the A train as I zip uptown to Wash Heights. I enjoy buying pastelitos and piraguas from the street vendors. (Support Latino street vendors!) I love being with my friends again.
But, something has changed.
I’m older now, not in number but in wisdom. I’m wary of this city. I know this city has the power to build but also to destroy to the point of desperation. I was there.
I pray that this city is kinder to me this time around. I ask God to expand my friend groups and to grow my faith community.
I’ll keep you guys updated.