My 2020 NYC Quilt
It’s our turn to go home for an extended vacation.
You know, that kind of vacation all over social media because of this wild, pandemic-ridden year. The kind where you see your friends both working from home and also posting stories from their parents’ kitchens. (We weren’t jealous or anything…)
We’ve spent the entire year here in New York, through all the ups and downs and scaries. Haven’t left once, if you don’t count the Catskills. And now we finally saw our chance at the end of this year to save a little money on rent and make up for lost time with precious family.
We’ll be home for Thanksgiving and Christmas and we are so ready.
All preparations have been a total whirlwind— When we return to NYC in January, we’ll be coming back to a new apartment. Our stuff’s in storage here in Manhattan, we’re cleaning our current place today, and then on tomorrow we kiss my favorite city in the world goodbye for two months. Followed by a 30-hour trek across the country in a rental car packed with some suitcases and Simba.
We are excited, we are exhausted, and we’re also sad.
I’m sorry to wax gushy about NYC and 2020. Though cliche by now, tears and heat flood my face when I think of the hell me and my little family have made it through these past 7 months, in our little corner of Manhattan:
What a battle it was to find toilet paper back in March.
What an anniversary we had back in April, with our living room dance party and takeout.
What a shock, finding out that all those months my chest pain wasn’t anxiety from the city shut-down, it was actually proof that I was COVID positive some time this spring thanks to the results of an antibodies test. (I’m a defined “long hauler” with remaining symptoms and have taken 4 swab tests since— all negative.)
Then the protests— thousands of us together, flooding the most famous streets in New York. I’ve never felt anything like it. The power was tangible in the united cries for justice. The stupidity and naiveté that washed over me as I spent weeks learning about experiences with racism I never knew existed. The heartbreak and somber feeling I felt when I’d read morning-after-headlines about smashed windows and torched cars and tear gas and injured human beings...all happening blocks away from us, when a protest would turn violent the night before.
Waking up every day, shaking my head to still be alive and moving amidst the madness: this was a shared sentiment across the entire city of NYC. A common heritage that I believe has bonded us all.
I don’t really know how else to keep saying what everyone has been saying. But I’ll try.
There are two things about NYC that are so beautiful, they simply take my breath away:
The resilient strength that demands change, life, survival, and joy (up and down the streets with makeshift patio dining; saxophone players with masks around their chins; protests that cry “Who protects us? We protect us.”)
How the people you share yourself with in NYC become family in the most meaningful of ways.
A lot of people think that New York City living is the epitome of “clawing your way to the top” or “dog-eat-dog”. People think we walk outside our front door and see skyscrapers, that icy cold stares or “f*ck off”s are all that await you when you make it up the steps from the subway. (Okay, okay— NYC is a filthy, intense place and maybe that could happen to you once or twice…) But when you find your neighborhood, things start to look a little more like Stars Hollow from Gilmore Girls— you have your wine guy, your favorite bodega, your delivery guy, your neighborhood kids who stop to pet the dog, your friends who greet you from across the street. The East Village has become our tiny town. And that’s what I will miss so desperately. Because nothing is final or guaranteed, so as much as we’d like to return to this part of the city, who knows what apartment will find us in January, or where it will be. (Except let’s be honest, it will never be uptown.)
Still, falling in love with NYC and our perfect apartment in our perfect neighborhood that actually feels like our own little village (thee Village, to be exact) is one thing. Being forced to stay in that same apartment and same neighborhood through the total darkness and unknown terror of 2020 is another thing altogether.
I feel like me and the city have taken things to the next level.
To ride bikes in an empty, desolate, eerily-bright-and-shiny Times Square.
To stop and stare in awe and wonder at the giant BLM murals popping up all over downtown.
To maneuver our dog all weekend around broken glass from storefronts boarded up.
To shed a tear when that little bar we love still hasn’t opened;
to celebrate when that restaurant puts patio furniture out for the first time since March.
To come together again with acquaintances and friends at the dog park, or to sadly count how many people must’ve moved away, since we haven’t seen them again.
To know people who survived COVID. To know people who didn’t.
It’s the pain of love.
And let me explain: I don’t just “love” this city.
I love this city.
Because we share scars now.
Because we cried tears and breathed germs
and bled blood and sweat bullets— together.
Because we swapped fears and war stories.
Because I’ve seen how these people take care of each other in times of crisis. Say what you will, but we are really good at handling emergencies.
-During the protests in June, NYPD loaded up a MTA bus of protesters to take them all to the nearest precinct for arrest.
The bus driver refused.
-The COVID tests we’ve taken have been quick, safe, and full of gentle nurses and doctors who spend hours maneuvering lines of potentially positive cases.
-Last week, we dined outside at one of our favorite restaurants. It was pretty cold and the guys at the table behind us were crackling away as they opened emergency heater blankets and wrapped them around their bodies before ordering. The entire patio erupted in laughter and applauded them for their clever idea.
-Today, the line for early voting in Gramercy was three blocks long. It was pouring rain, and some volunteers didn’t have umbrellas, but smiled all the way through.
On our way out of 2020, it’s become obvious that Alex and I have laid some serious roots down in this city. Not roots like a property investment or babies to raise…roots like the spiritual and mentor rigor of deep fear, deep loss, and deep hope. So it’s a deep love.
And my heart pangs when I realize that it’s time to leave, even for just 2 months.
Today I stood in my empty apartment and saw the high ceilings and crown moulding and six foot windows and realized that it’s not just a cute little apartment I’ll miss— but that it has been a sanctuary for us three through the ugliest, most difficult year yet of my adult life.
Quarantine forced us to spend all our time there.
In that tiny kitchen on that tiny stove, I actually got really good at cooking. And in that living room, I picked up reading music and playing piano again. And on that roof, Alex and I clinked glasses of homemade cocktails during a pretend happy hour Friday and clapped for healthcare workers returning home at 7pm every single evening.
While the movers loaded the last of our stuff to haul down three flights of stairs, I looked down out of our window to survey my block. Our neighbor, Lia (who’s lived in our building for 20+ years, calls our dog “el bebe”, and always tells us to fight the power) was scratching off a lottery ticket as she leaned out onto her fire escape.
I have a to-do list of goodbyes: Teresa the artist and her 7 year-old son Sparrow in their studio just up the block, Miguel the bartender at our favorite margarita place (who always says “It’s Mezcal o’clock!”), our dear friends from the dog park whom Simba knows as literal family, Willy across the street always shouting from his wheelchair, the little girl on the floor above us who finally got up the courage to pet Sim just 2 weeks ago.
We have a community here.
We’ve been building it for a long time.
And communities get stronger when they withstand harsh conditions together. I thought harsh conditions were entire street blocks that smelled like pee, or getting screamed at by a stranger— but I had no idea what “New York Tough” really meant until 2020.
Coming up on three years in this place, I’m starting to see so much more good than bad. So much more love and care. And that love and care has come out in quadruple portions, given all that the city has endured together this year.
Like that one time in August when we saw a guy screaming “HELP!” chasing after someone who was riding off with his bike. The 5 different bystanders ran to his aid and pushed the thief down. He fell over and ran away. The bike was returned.
Or that other time in July, when we saw this woman sobbing on her stoop, and another woman, socially distanced and probably a stranger, kept telling her that it was going to be okay.
Or most recently, when our superintendent Rolando told us we were family and could call him for anything, no matter where our new apartment would be.
I have 100+ more stories of miraculous, beautiful moments I’ve witnessed and been a part of this year, in this city. And I will keep them stockpiled as ammo when someone lifts their eyebrows and says to me “I don’t know how you guys survived New York City in 2020.”
I’m trying to write down how we did, and how we wouldn’t trade it for anything.
All these people and brief moments of reaching out, of carrying the burden together, touched our lives everyday. And they’ve been woven into the fabric of our New York City experience. It’s this huge, ugly, fantastic patchwork-quilt that we can wrap around our hearts. It will keep us warm to the truth that this place really is amazing and full of kindness. And this is to say nothing of those in NYC who have been more to us than our wine guy or delivery person, those who are actually dear friends, who spent painfully long hours with us on Zoom sessions: book clubs and “how to’s”, just to check in; those who broke bread with us in parks all summer and met us at the beach. You know who you are; your company was complete respite, joy, and a safe place for us when everything else was so daunting and unsure. (That’s an entirely different essay of its own: deep friendships forged through 2020.)
This week, before we go, I’ve been trying to ride a CitiBike around more and take in the wet air, the good sounds and smells, and even the bad ones. The leaves are so bright with yellows and oranges and specks remaining of green.
I remember clutching my coat in February before having any idea what would befall us come March, then shedding layers of clothes all year: spring, summer, fall. Learning to cope with zero control.
And now, here I am again, with my same coat in my empty apartment 7 months later, months that have felt like an eternity, both blissful and awful. As I survey this year, and this apartment, and this neighborhood, I’m swelling with love and pride and sadness, all coming to a crescendo: a messy, tearful sigh that says
“Good God, we made it through and I couldn’t love this city more.”
We’re not saying goodbye to NYC, and I hope we never have to.
For now, we are only saying “See you soon.”
2 months isn’t all that long. And the holidays in Albuquerque will be a dream.
Besides, I’ve got a good track record with long distance relationships.
We will together again at the start of 2021 to try a new year on for size.
And my how we’ve grown.
