Each morning I bring Dolly's words to life, pouring myself a cup of ambition for the work day ahead. I usually sit and ponder within the stillness of morning, mug in hand.
What is ahead of me today?
Who I am I, but even more pressing- who am I becoming?
What's the man's name I see smoking a cigarette in his boxers every morning atop his balcony across the street?
This city is hard to settle into with all that goes on around you. Though I've found there's beauty in this quality, a consistent curiosity of the stories walking into their respective brownstones at day's end.
I note individuals at two key moments in a New York day- the walk to the downtown train... and the walk home from the downtown train.
Each morning, I step out of my building and onto a thin layer of the night before. Thankfully I live down the street from world renowned Spicy-Rigatoni-so-good-it's-in-a-Drake-song establishment, Carbone, where each morning a gentleman is literally scrubbing the street outside the restaurant with soap and water.
This struck me, being an image-based person I often care (too much) about the status of my job, and how it might elevate my purpose. But this man is outside each morning at 8:30 a.m. cleaning concrete, and though the task may seem low on the totem pole, his contribution has (gasp) purpose.
I turn right onto Houston (HOW-ston...why?) to find the nameless, jolly parking garage security guard with whom I exchange a silent hello each morning. He hasn't been at his post in awhile, I wonder if I will ever see him again.
Under the earth I go, shot down the island and spit back out into a sea of commuters also running late from MTA delays. What a summary of life in this city...magic, underground, thrown in, spit back out, delays, magic.
Eight hours later, I emerge from the office - it smells like garbage out here. Past the brewery I stroll, Wall Street egos stare at me as I act ignorant, looking at every patron envious of the beer they already have. Who are you? Are you having a hard time in this city? In your job? How do you afford to live here? How did you make the friends you're sitting with right now? Stop staring at me. I just keep walking.
Magic, underground, stand clear of the closing doors, spit back out uptown, magic.
Runners on their nightly jog pass me by, I wonder what they are listening to. Everyone always has headphones in, seemingly talking to air, rather a loved one on the other end. Who loves you? What parts of your day are you debriefing with them? I need to call my mom.
Left onto MacDougal. An unnecessary addition to my route as I hate most everything about this street. Sirens to drown out my thoughts, exercise groups on the basketball courts acting like it doesn't hurt to burpee on concrete, residue from an NYU student's weekend regrets. Note my hate for MOST everything on this stretch of my commute - I turn for Caffe Dante.
People taking the edge off with a lemon twist, reigniting with spirited espresso. Swirling of pappardelle, connecting with a friend after too long, the cello being set up for an evening's soundtrack. New Yorkers dine and drink on a Tuesday like it's Mardi Gras in the French Quarter. I want to be a part of it (New York). Thanks to Frank for putting words to it so I don't have to.
I pass my corner cafe, Shannon yells "hi" from the host stand, invites me to the trivia night they have started holding weekly. He served me only once, gave me my first pour over in the city and the only public wifi I've ever had. But we are friends, somehow.
Through the doors of 210 I walk. I pass my super, who hates me from an unfortunate encounter turned miscommunication. We won't ever make up, but I will smile knowing he's been wearing the same clothes and flip flops since the day we signed our lease.
Up, up, up...up, up, up to my (sixth floor) apartment where my top bunk awaits. I sit to catch my breath while attempting to ask my roommates about their days through the huffs and puffs. They encountered their own characters too.
I wonder what they all do when they get home.
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