Five months before I moved to New York City, I found myself in a tiny apartment of a stranger in East Village at 4 a.m. The stranger's name was Brandy, she was a psychic and, besides telling me I was likely to fall pregnant within three months, everything she said about my future was spot on. She told me my ex-boyfriend was moving closer to me, (a fact he'd actually relayed to me earlier that day that I had not disclosed to Brandy), yet I was under absolutely no circumstances to see him, even if he looked really good in hats. She told me it was clear I wasn't looking for a relationship, but not to worry -- when it happened, it would be right. And, most importantly, Brandy told me about my career. She said in the coming months, I'd be actively seeking a new position and would be confused as to which offer to take. She told me I'd be skeptical about whatever job I'd eventually choose, but again -- everything would work out in the end.
When I walked out of Brandy's that night/morning with my friends Ellen and Adam, solely intent on finding a McDonald's, I had no idea how accurate her predictions would be. It was as if she truly had foreseen I'd quit my original NYC position after three weeks once I was offered a job at TIME. Or, that I'd go on date after date here, not upset they didn't work out, but instead amused at all the stories I was collecting along the way. But, of course, I wasn't thinking about any of this at the time I received my Happy Meal. I was just happy to be with my friends, still slightly intoxicated as the morning light broke and riding in a cab back to Chelsea's apartment in Harlem along the East River, chanting the hashtag we'd seen on a billboard earlier that day: "We're More New York Than New York." (#MNYTNY).
I never could have known, while Ellen was snoring on my shoulder and Adam and I were taking in the sunrise quietly, we'd be driving right past the apartment on the Upper East Side that, in five short months, I'd call my home.
It's now been almost a year since I put everything I own in a U-Haul, arrived at that tiny studio apartment on the UES, then watched my brothers carry all those belongings up six flights of stairs. I've had a lot of experiences here in New York -- some experiences I definitely didn't see happening in my lifetime, let alone within my first year of living completely on my own. I was accused of being a Somalian drug lord. I lost a painfully large amount of money to a broker who used to be in the Israeli army. After ten days, I accidentally killed my fish.
RIP Kanye
Living in New York City this past year has been nothing short of what I imagined it would be and, even on the hardest of days, I have no doubt that I've ever been happier. I moved here on January 3, 2015. And, as all my friends who also live here will tell you, that one year anniversary is a momentous occasion. So, up until my special date approaches, I hope to be able to share some small anecdotes of the times I've experienced where I've truly felt more New York than New York.
And, this is the first one.
#MNYTNY: CROISSANTS, COFFEE SHOPS & PEN PALS
The worst part about living in New York City, besides witnessing people urinate on each other in the subway, is being so far away from my college best friends. Though we've had a GroupMe established since before I even graduated from school and it is literally utilized daily, flooding my phone with an endless supply of GIF's and jokes of everyone making fun of our friend, Drew, most of them still live in the Midwest and, because of the distance, I miss them immensely.
So, back in June, I decided to fly to Chicago for the weekend. A few of the people from our group who lived in Indy were planning on driving up to see a Cubs game, so I booked a flight out to spend a few days with the friends I've missed so much since I moved back to the east coast. And, despite us forgetting to actually purchase tickets to the game, the weekend was incredibly successful.
My plane landed in Chicago that Friday at the same time my very best friend, Anna, arrived in the city. While she attempted to drive to our friend Bridget's apartment and, also, find a parking spot, I attempted to navigate the Chicago public transportation system, a task I successfully accomplished although a bus driver yelled at me twice and I was accosted by multiple teens wearing little-to-no clothing on their way to an EDM concert.
But, eventually, the two of us were reunited and, after making excited noises that probably horrified all of the people around us, we decided to go to a coffee shop and catch up on each other's lives while we waited for Bridget to get off work.
A few hours later, Anna and I were still sitting at the same table, talking incessantly as if we hadn't been apart for the last eight months. The only time we'd paused our conversation was when Bridget sent us a message to let us know she'd just gotten off work and, also, that her friend from high school was going to meet us all at the coffee place. She'd said to be on the lookout for a guy wearing a bright yellow rain jacket and carrying a guitar, which wasn't hard because within minutes, the door of the shop opened and a man fitting Bridget's description walked in.
And, that's how I met my future pen pal.
I’ll call my pen pal Luke since that is his real name and, if he gets upset with me using his real name, he’ll have to write to me about it because our only form of communication is via the US Postal Service and, by the time I receive his letter, everyone will probably have forgotten about this in the first place.
But, anyway, I knew Luke and I were going to be friends almost immediately because within the first ten minutes of our introduction, he'd told me I could both pull off rompers and that I didn't seem like someone who lived on the Upper East Side, which are two of the best compliments I've ever received. And, even though we'd never met before, our conversations were seamlessly easy. That night, sitting on Bridget's roof drinking beers after we'd all had dinner at a bar someone had literally been stabbed in a few weeks before (a fact Bridget conveniently forgot to mention until we were already there), the four of us discussed a wide range of topics, one of which was our shared interest of letter writing as a preferred method of communication.
Right before this photo was taken, I purchased beer solely because of the cute packaging. Right after this photo was taken, I went into Bridget's bathroom and sent a photo of it to all my friend's who live in Manhattan with the caption "BRIDGET'S BATHROOM IS LITERALLY BIGGER THAN MY ENTIRE APARTMENT." (It is).
Then, after our beer had run out and it started to rain as we were sitting on the roof, the four of us went inside and pretty promptly fell asleep on the couch. And, in the morning, while Anna and I were brushing our teeth and simultaneously discussing our respective Zumba instructors, Luke went home.
Once I got back to New York, I knew I wanted to stay in contact with Luke (even though we'd met for less than 24 hours), but I didn't know how. I'd asked Bridget for his phone number, but once I'd received it, I was unsure of how to proceed with actually contacting him.
Luckily, I have no idea how to use an iPhone.
On the very same evening Chelsea, Zach and I were preparing to leave Gramercy to go to Jamie's death metal show in Bushwick, I was attempting to locate directions to the subway and, in a wine-fueled confusion, instead accidentally called Luke's number.
Multiple times.
The embarrassment of this mistake was soon overpowered by my fear I was going to be stabbed at the death metal concert, so I quickly forgot about the accident. In fact, I'd pushed it out of my mind until a few days later, when my phone vibrated as I was walking down the streets of SoHo.
At first, I thought I was actually going to die from mortification, but my embarrassment gave way to happiness after I'd explained I strangely wanted to be his pen pal and he'd enthusiastically agreed. I sent Luke my address and assumed I'd hear from him maybe sometime before the end of the year.
Instead, I received Luke's first letter about a week after initially contacting him. And, it was even better than I could have imagined. It was filled with pages of funny anecdotes, facts about himself (since, essentially, we were technically still strangers) and a brief analysis of the songs he'd been listening to lately. It was, hands down, the best letter I'd ever received in my life -- I laughed so hard reading it that Arthur, my downstairs neighbor who believes I'm a drug dealer, banged on his ceiling as a signal for me to get quieter -- and I decided I wanted to pen my response back almost immediately.
Luckily, I have the actual best job ever and don't work on Friday's, so the morning after I received Luke's letter, I walked to the coffee shop by my apartment I'd always wanted to go to, but never had found the time to do so. I was originally attracted to the establishment because of the embellished design of an ampersand in the doorway, but once I actually went inside, I was smitten with the place even more.
This was 99% due to the fact they served tiny croissants on tiny cutting boards.
I ordered a mini croissant and a cappuccino, then spent the next five hours cross-legged on a wooden stool, writing back my response and staring at the tiny croissant because it was too cute to eat.
Once I was pretty positive if I wrote any longer of a letter, Luke would think I was a horrific stalker, I cut myself off, then gathered up my things and began to head home. But, as I started walking back to my apartment, it began raining. Like, really, really hard. And, although I am the proud owner of three umbrellas, one of which Sam and I found on the floor at the Whole Foods cafe on our third date, I rarely remember to actually bring them with me.
It was at this exact moment, when I was becoming drenched in the middle of the a downpour, when one of the songs Luke had sent me came on in my earbuds. It was "Timothy" by The Tallest Man on Earth and it was the most perfect soundtrack for what I was experiencing.
For reference:
In that instant, I was so content with everything -- my life in New York City, my day spent at the coffee shop, my newfound pen pal -- that I threw up both my hands and face toward the rain and began laughing hysterically out of sheer happiness. And, while I'm sure a girl in glasses with red lipstick, giggling and getting soaked in the rain was definitely not the weirdest thing people saw on the sidewalks of New York City that day, I didn't even mind I was attracting multiple stares. I felt so at home here in that moment, so comfortable in myself and my life decisions that had gotten me to where I was at that specific time.
For lack of a better description, I truly felt more New York than New York and, as I slowly trekked home, with ridiculously wet hair and still grinning with the ending lines of "Timothy" in my ears, I knew this city was where I was meant to be.
Because Brandy was right -- everything was going to work out just fine for me in the end.