I mentioned last weekend that I've been feeling restless, dreamy,
greedy for something.
Whenever this happens, I start thinking of New York. When I interned there in 2005, I was freshly 21, heading to the city of dreams with two of my best friends. 4 months, 3 girlfriends, 2 apartments, 1 goal: fun of the fabulous variety.
I had
no idea what to expect. I grew up in rural Michigan and except for a few family trips to Las Vegas to visit relatives, a couple class trips to Chicago and one church group trip to New Orleans, my travel radius was about 250 miles.
It was extraordinary. I laughed, I learned, I loved... and I lost: I lost weight, I lost anxiety, I lost self-consciousness, I lost self-doubt. In the city that never sleeps, I slept like a baby. In the city where 8 million people buzz around each other going about their own business, I made friends. In a city where you can easily lose yourself, I found out who I
could be.
But there came a time to come home. I cried, I cleaned, I created last-minute memories via a newly opened Visa card. But after shipping a few boxes of books home, I flew back to finish my degree.
As time went on, reason after reason kept me from moving back. I pursued my Master's degree close to home because I had close relationships with my advisers and could therefore have more control over the direction of my studies. (And also, it was
free.) My late advisor told me to stop waffling. "New York will always be there when you need it," she said. (She was right: I've been back in 2006, 2007, 2008 and 2011, and it has never disappointed me.)
I stayed close to home when my dad was injured at work and had to have two back surgeries. I got job after job to gain more experience. I even bought a
house and began to set down roots. New York has always been in the back of my mind, though, for two reasons:
It had made me happy, and I wanted to be that happy again.
What was the magic there? Was it the hustle, the bustle, the unlimited entertainment? Was it the freedom, the opportunity, the hope? Or did I just find happiness in an unexpected place during a time that could not be recreated because it was just
kismet? When else can three fresh-faced girls bubbling with excitement during a thrilling time in their career tackle a new city together? When else can you have friends and family fly to visit you almost every weekend, with an entire world at your fingertips?
Those circumstances might be unique, but was that happiness able to be replicated? What could I learn from it if I studied it hard enough?
And then there's the cold hard truth: I never went back. I'm a girl who takes care of her own business. I track down
the perfect entry way bench. I say I will go to Europe for my graduation and I go. I
set goals and I try every angle, every way, every possible avenue to reach them. But I never went, and I have always asked myself why? If it makes you so happy, as Sheryl Crow would say, then it can't be so bad. So just. make. it. happen. But I never did. I would even venture so far as to say it's the only thing I've ever
really wanted that I didn't make a reality.
"We pick up in New York City
I'm trying to find the [wo]man I never got to be
But when I push down on the pavement,
I find the whole thing so much harder than it seems"
--John Mayer, "Whiskey, Whiskey, Whiskey"
Okay, so what was my city hangover trying to tell me?
After
6 7 years (holy cats!), I'm still not sure. Only that my world was a little bit brighter there, and my gut tells me it wasn't just the city lights. Alas, here are my top five theories about why New York made me so happy (in hopes to apply these key lessons
wherever I land right this second).
1. I found my limits--and I pushed right through them. I will never forget going out into the garage to say goodbye to my dad the night before my flight left. He was already crying and I thought he was scared for me. But he was proud. And if you know me at all, that unraveled me. I mean, it made me happy, but I was a pile of tears and angst. Was I doing the right thing? My mom was more matter-of-fact, making sure I had everything I needed, and tucking a beautiful new watch in my suitcase for me to find when I landed. She was trying to avoid crying because she wanted to be strong for me. This just made me more unsure. I felt bottled up, hesitant. I felt like I had gone too far.
It took me a good five days to feel like I made the right decision getting on that plane. I pushed through the threshold of what I thought I could endure--being away from my family--and on the other side, I found that there was a wide open world to explore, and that I could find happiness in a little corner of it, and still feel completely loved and supported.
2. I found my voice. I had originally taken an internship with a privately-owned book-packager and literary publishing agency. I had aced my interview over spring break and was ready to soak in every bit of knowledge that I could. But my boss was only looking for a free receptionist. In fact, she just wanted a slave (and not your average intern slave; she wanted the shackled kind): I babysat her 18-month-old daughter during important meetings and then was chastised if she cried; I walked 42 blocks roundtrip to file a police report for her "stolen" cellphone; I called to complain about the accommodations on her recent personal trips, and was encouraged to get as big of a refund as I could. I spent a few weeks trying to put myself in my place (I
was an intern, after all) while asking a million questions of the other employees, who were mostly overworked interns themselves. But as time went on, she became more hostile and demanding; it was an all-around uncomfortable and disappointing experience.
So I quit. After rehearsing a few times in the mirror, I pushed my shoulders back, walked in her office and told her I wasn't getting the experience I came to get. After a few phone calls trying to convince me to come back, she conceded that it was time to find another
slave intern.
I was about to walk my butt over to Old Navy and ask for an application, but my advisor (the same one who offered the guidance above) put out an email to all of her contacts through the professional organizations she belonged to: "Bright young student needs an internship," the email read. "She worked her butt off to get to New York and has been mistreated.... I think the publishing world owes her a hand. Can you help?"
And help they did. Many offered informational interviews; it was already June and their intern programs were full. So I spent a few days touring the big publishing houses, asking as many questions as I could think of and guzzling down their free soda. I accepted that maybe I would just spend my summer selling plastic flip flops. But one editor came through and delivered. My knees were knocking when I walked into
W.W. Norton's Fifth Avenue office and told the doorman who I was there to see. But I was offered a internship in the text book division, and the rest was history.
I am grateful to those who helped (and will always pay it forward), but I am equally grateful that I saw my worth and actually spoke it out loud.
3. I found a passion. I lived it out loud three days a week as I hustled in and out of the subway, on and off the bus, back and forth to and from Norton. I put hundreds of miles on my summer sandals as I ran from office to office, spent hours in front of the hot copy machine, sweating in the July heat and eating lunch out of the vending machine, obsessively preparing galleys for the editors. I filled my tote bag with books from the take-one-please library, and I read those books until late, late at night (albeit scanning the floor for mice at the same time).
4. I found love. Sure, I dated, I crushed, and I
got crushed. I even spontaneously asked my cute German coworker, Bernd, out to dinner when it started raining on the walk to the Subway station. But what I really mean is that I started to love myself. I spent entire afternoons walking with nowhere in mind, enjoying my own company. On days that I didn't work, I went down to Chelsea Piers and laid in the lawn, devouring books from Anna's aunt's shelves. Somewhere in between day trips with visitors and all-night dancing sessions with Jackie at Joshua Tree, the doubts in my mind quieted. I'm sure if I dug out my journals, you'd be able to see a marked difference between my insecure ramblings from May and June and my writings in July and August. Something just
clicked.
5. I found a lifestyle I loved. When people ask me what I loved about the city, I always say that we lucked out with the location of our apartment. We rented from my friend Anna's aunt in a neighborhood called
Chelsea. Our apartment was 3 blocks from the
Chelsea Market, and just about every other day, I would walk down and buy some fresh veggies, whatever looked good. If Anna was with me, we would manhandle the food bar (once hilariously mistaking huge chunks of tofu for feta) or hit up a tasting at the wine store.
I loved walking everywhere, or catching a cab late at night. I loved trying new things, even if I had to spit my oysters in my napkin and beg Jackie to finish them. I loved my complete independence, even if I did once call my parents screaming about a mouse. I loved watching people in the grocery store. I loved how, even in a city of millions, you'd sometimes see the same people over and over again. I even loved the creepy guy on the next stoop (okay, that one might just be nostalgia talking). I loved how rude and genuinely
bothered our super was. I loved not knowing whether a cabbie would ignore me, share his conspiracies, give me sage advice, or try to convince me that he thought was a supermodel.
I loved that you could take a subway and have perfect timing as your guests were arriving from a completely different state via Penn Station in the middle of town. When they emerged, you could offer them their choice of anything in the world: it was all at your fingertips.
I even loved lugging my laundry down the block and reading in silent companionship with the other patrons while the machines buzzed and people dropped quarters into the soap dispenser.
I loved competitively hailing a cab and eventually saying with assertive confidence, "17th Street between 8th and 9th, please." I loved the feeling that I had mastered something new and that something so universal and expansive was becoming, in some small but specific way,
mine--and I think it's annoyed me that I have never quite felt like I mastered living in Marquette.
Guests.
These two offered shenanigans at our home away from home (away from home): Foley's.
We woke up one Saturday and our street had become a festival. I dream that happens one day on Lee Street.
Me, Jackie and Anna watching a movie in Bryant Park.
