I'm Going To Be a Part of It; New York, New York!!

Melancholy Unreserved

At work today, I had a call from an 80 year old Brooklinite. His accent is heavy and endearing, and the way he draws out his Ds make me smile—he’s Italian; not that his last name didn’t give that fact away. Turns out he lives a few blocks from my old house in Bay Ridge, down by Avenue R and 56th street. I miss home, I miss home a lot.

New York City! What is it about New York that’s so mystical and surreal? It’s simply the perfect place to live. There’s so much energy resting on the stained, blackened pavements of NYC, lingering on every corner and pulsing upward as it climbs the glass windows of skyscrapers tall enough to stroke the sky. Manhattan, home of the untouchables and fashion, of culture and obdurate art; home of Central Park, where cultures and classes collide, where reality melts inside a boiling froth of awed tourists, jaded cabbies and ancient beauty.

It is so real that it can only seem surreal—reality, through a New Yorker’s eyes.

That is home; I grew up there. Brooklyn, where hotdogs are Frankfurters, and kids play underneath fire-hydrants during the smoldering summer heat.We played under the pressure, as the water washed on us like pouring rain, icy and alleviating. There in my little town, many old leafy parks sit on every neighborhood, each day growing older, already being old. Their fire-red brick walls remind me of a time I never lived, and it reminds me that in spite of me there is a lot of history that stands there. I miss the smell of auburn leafs in the middle of September, and the way the ground is lost under its dazzling autumn fire. I miss the busy bodies of 5th Ave, racing one another without ever really noticing the other, because there is no race; “I got things to do, you know!” they’d probably say.

I miss the chilly bite of winter frost, the real cold and not some silly imitation. I miss the look of snow, melting and dingy in the corners, between overpasses and old shoe factories. In December, salt floods the asphalt and walking becomes risky business. They have an old saying that warns about collapsing in the snow: “If you hit the snow in NYC, you’ll never leave…” I’ve taken to the white, icy ground a few times in my life—I suppose I’m ok with never really leaving.

I miss the subway stations, their gawky smell and the random, humble individuals that always have a story to say and a lesson to share when you’ve finally found a place to sit inside the train. I met all the crazy people of New York while I rode the R Uptown and Bayside; they are truly where the city’s heart resides. You can try to give a bum a house on the greensands of Capecod, and he’d refuse just to ride the subways of his city.


I miss sunsets by the promenade, and the Verrazzano Bridge. My friends and I skipped school often, back in seventh grade, and ride the train out to Coney Island. The beach was dirty and gross, and the sand was coarse, like broken glass (there may have been some broken needles…), so I always kept my shoes on. Even so, it was all breath taking. We sat by the rocks where Old Italian men sat in a big group to fish and smoke cigars. They’d tell us stories about sharks and sea monsters they had fought and we believed them. Most of the time we’d sit out there alone, watching the whooshing waves crashing at our feet, wishing that one day we could be old men ourselves, telling stories of underwater battles out in the Atlantic. I remember riding the Cyclone, the Ferris wheel, and getting ice cream on my shirt out on the boards of Brighton Beach—good times! It’s funny how NY seems so big to those who’ve never lived in it. Growing up, New York was only but my playground.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.