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| Coffee shop in my neighborhood, scroungin' up some bizness before Sandy. |
My dad
visited. Superstorm Sandy assaulted New York.
Although
these two events seem unrelated – save for their chronological overlap – they both
have me thinking about New York in relational terms. That is, when something unfamiliar interacts
with the familiar, when the foreign strikes home, I contemplate.
Ever
since I returned to the city in August after visiting my parents, I’ve been
underwhelmed, though subconsciously so. The city hasn’t changed, nor
has it lost its excitement or luster.
Nor have I gotten bored in daily life.
On the contrary: I began a new job, the “semester” of small groups and daily
life started up again. I’m still meeting and befriending new people, growing
closer to some, experiencing new events and music and cultures. But this “daily life” has become integrated
into “New York life.” Or, perhaps, “New York life” has become “daily life.” That I
cannot figure out how best to phrase the sentiment points to the fact that the syntax
doesn’t matter: they’re one and the same.
Of
course, I’m still new here and will not be considered a New Yorker for many
years to come (if ever). But what the
city has lost is the luster of the “new,” the excitement of a thrilling (or
terrifying) adventure in my life. In several
ways, this is a blessing: I have multiple communities in which I feel part, I
have a job and a daily commute, I have a list of favorite places to recommend to others. In other ways, this loss
is a curse (or, more generously, a disappointment): I’ve already felt somewhat
restless, I now have to face the realization that my life here hasn’t turned
out exactly how I wanted it to, and I’ve lost my sensitivity to the latent excitement
of my environment. As evidence, I
present case study number one: my neglect of this blog, my personal record of
my first year in New York. (Hopefully I’ll find the time to write some catch-up,
but no promises.)
When my
dad visited last week, it was his first visit to the city. Planning our itinerary
became less about showing him around the city and more about showing him my
life, now enmeshed in this place. I
sought to diversify the experience, to show him touristy New York and personal
New York. We walked around Central Park,
but we also walked around my neighborhood.
We greeted the city from the top of the Empire State Building, but we
also greeted my friends at a new, local beer hall. We met with the city as we rode through its
underground tunnels and walked its streets, and we fellowshipped with my new-found
community. Of course, his glimpse into
my life was fragmented; I don’t normally go to nice Italian restaurants on
Friday nights or visit the museum on Sunday mornings (though perhaps I should).
But exposing my father – unfamiliar to the city and my daily routine – to the
now-familiar aspects of my life was a daunting-yet-intriguing experience, if
only for the fact that the juxtaposition exists.
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| Lower Manhattan from the Staten Island Ferry (Pre-Sandy loss of power) |
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| A foggy day in New York-town from the top of the Empire State Building, looking south. No lines! |
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| Autumn in New York. Central Park 10/27/2012. |
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| The father conquers New York City. |
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| Dead things at the American Museum of Natural History |
When
Sandy swept through, locking us indoors for a few days, trapping my dad here
for a few extra, stressful days, but largely (and thankfully) ignoring my
neighborhood, I was once again confronted by the familiar/unfamiliar divide. Bare fact: a hurricane in New York is unfamiliar
(especially because I was not here for Irene – and its pittance – last year). Being
cut off from Manhattan for a week (and for the first time since I’ve lived here)
left me with nothing but the everyday
aspects of my life: my apartment, my friends gathering, a few runs to the park
or the library. Everything was wholly
domestic. At the same time, Sandy wreaked
havoc on parts of the city, shutting down power in lower Manhattan (and at my
work) in ways that I couldn’t imagine in my safe little Brooklyn nest. The closest I got to the destruction was
volunteering at the shelter in the Park Slope Armory, where nursing homes from the
Rockaways evacuated their patients. And even after a few hours there, I was
free to go home to my bed, to take a hot shower and curl up under soft downy
comfort(er). I followed the news like most people in the country – via newspaper
reports and friends’ Facebook feeds (we don’t have TV). All of this unfamiliar tragedy was happening around
me, but it still felt so distant; it was around the corner, yet I was able to
distance myself and lose myself in party games, a run, a book (or four),
Netflix, and selfish complaints of boredom.
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| Beginning of Sandy: we ventured out to get lunch at Nero Doro. |
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| Nero Doro |
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| Mid-Sandy: Making cookies (oatmeal chocolate chip) |
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| Mid-Sandy: Roommate Dinner! (+ Dad) |
My dad
ended up renting a car and driving home, and I could hear the relief in his
voice – not because of leaving New York, necessarily, but because of getting
home, getting back to the familiar. And
I have to wonder, as I go back to work, as I recommit to classes at the Y, as the
MTA resumes subway service, but as Sandy’s complications still trouble millions,
will this city actually ever rest in me as familiar? Does it already? Or will it keep throwing surprises – good or bad
– and shaking me up? My bet
is on the surprises.
I actually relish the swing between familiar and unfamiliar, the forced re-examination of my life here, which I never want to become ordinary. I want to be gently shaken and encouraged to look around, to be conscious as I walk through daily life, and I want "daily life" to be challenged - and I want to constantly challenge it.
I just hope that whatever it is that makes me conscious the next time around can be a little gentler to the city than Sandy.
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| Post-Sandy: People blatantly disregarding the "Park Closed" sign at Prospect Park |
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| Post-Sandy: Have a seat amidst the fall foliage at Fort Greene Park |
