A New York Minute

f you've been with me from the beginning, you're well acquainted with my love for New York. If not, you can find those old posts on my website.

I haven't been to the city since before Covid, but dropped by to visit family and take in some of the holiday magic. 

I'd never seen the airport so quiet on the day I left. I popped into an empty Starbucks, and this lovely, animated guy asked me where I was headed.

“New York,” I said.

“Where in New York?” he asked.

For a second, I'd forgotten that there are other places. “New York...proper.” Proper? When have I ever said 'proper'? “Manhattan.” I clarified.

Then he broke into a story about growing up in the Bronx, and how one of his parents moved to Canada, but he goes back all the time. I love it when strangers offer pieces of themselves this way. 

I love how so many people feel this connection to the city.

A library moment.

Except, the city felt different for me this time around. Less glass slipper, more worn shoe.

Of course, it was me. Age has a way of warping the tint of the rose-coloured glasses that come with youth, butterflies, and excitement. Yeah, that tint is still there but it's chipped and a little muted somehow.

This time, I felt the weight of my history.

Chelsea, one of my dearest friends, is a New Yorker. She was Philip Seymour Hoffman's assistant once upon a time, and that's how we met--on a movie. The three of us were inseparable. Chelsea is and always will be a bohemian. She's a singer, an artist, wrapped in feathers, blissfully fearless and eternally wandering.

Me & Chelsea on her music video day.

I remember trying to coordinate Phil's pickup after wrap one night, and Chelsea was nowhere to be found, off shooting a music video in some obscure part of the city. 

“She's a terrible assistant,” I said to Phil.

He gave me his trademark smirk. “She really is.”

And we laughed.

But she was wild and free, the antithesis of everything an assistant should be. He adored her, and so did I. 

I have vivid memories of walking the streets of lower Manhattan with them. Long days turned to nights. The laughter, the heated debates, stumbling from one cafe into the next. From fancy restaurants to dessert bars to 24-hour diners with the lights always on.  

One night, down at the South Street Seaport, we found ourselves surrounded by people learning to ballroom dance on the pier.  

Phil, always with his bike, Chelsea, always with her guitar. Chelsea disappeared for a moment and Phil and I stood side by side looking out at the water. We were debating something, as usual, when he stopped, huffed out a breath and met my eyes. “Why do you do that? Why do you argue with me over everything?”

I shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I hate it.”

“I know.” I smiled.

But he didn’t hate it. Not one bit.

I think it was the Tango.

Magic.

I was in the city the day he died.

It was pure coincidence. Snowing outside. I was staying at the Gramercy Park Hotel. My life was very different then. A new chapter. I remember sitting on the window seat, watching soft puffs of snow float through the air as if in slow motion, the park below blanketed in white. Silent tears slipped down my cheeks that I quickly wiped away. 

Feel this later, I told myself.

Sometimes a loss is just for you.  

Except, feel this later is a dangerous game. The older I get, the stronger the pull to feel this now. 

I think about that morning every time I'm in the city. 

My favourite part of this trip was my hotel. 

The ‘Mansion’ hallway.

I treated myself to someplace special, and when I arrived, there was a mistake, then an upgrade, and before I knew it, a lovely gentleman was leading me to a suite in a portion of the building called 'The Mansion.' I gleefully let him explain the history as he led the way.

It was magical.

Starry lights sprinkled across the ceiling, sage green walls, details for days.

A bedside lamp with webbed feet? Yes please.

It reminded me of Gramercy with the dark hardwood floors.

Before the gentleman could even finish saying the words, 'Or would you like to wait for the other…?' I had snatched the keys from his hand.

View never gets old.

It felt like an artist's pied-à-terre. I walked in at the end of long days and imagined it was all mine. I played too much Taylor Swift and Gracie Abrams on the fancy Bluetooth speaker. I even opened the 'Flaneur,' the Pinot Noir in the room, which was wildly out of character, because I rarely drink, but it just felt right.

Every day, my best friend would text me, 'How are we doing on the overpriced-hotel-wine?'

It took me the whole four days to get through it. Probably not very flaneur of me.

Bury me in this wallpaper.

The sights all felt like old hat to me. It's funny how memories get carved into your soul by the people you're with, not by the things you see.

Although the ghosts of those memories still caught me off guard.

A stroll through the park was full of thoughts about the future, yet whispers of the past slipped in with the sightlines. Such a strange duality to process.

I missed Chelsea, though, and texted her when I got back.

And it’s all ok…

So, it was interesting, New York. Even when I think I'm done with you, when I think I hate you, you still teach me something about myself.

And that is why I will always come back.