“I want to be a part of it,
New York, New York.”
~Sinatra
It was dirtier than I imagined. The subways were sticky hot and offended all five senses. The cab rides were expensive and so was the alcohol. The clubs I dreamed about were exclusive, and required an Amex black card to be accessed. The beautiful people wore big labeled sunglasses and pushed their way past you, in a bigger hurry than those in Los Angeles. The streets were lit up all night and littered with trash; they smelled of urine and hot dogs.
It was more glamorous than I thought. There were drivers that waited for couture shoppers to make their selections. The restaurants served cuisine so foreign and expensive that it rivaled a luxury Lamborghini. The people on Park Avenue all looked like they should be followed by paparazzi and the NYU students walked single file on the sidewalks. Tourists and New Yorkers walked the same sidewalks, but each so distinctively you could separate them with a glance. People tried so hard not to touch each other that I wondered what contagious disease they were trying to avoid, and if I in fact would catch the fear of it too. There was a honk and a yell every moment and no one seemed to notice or care, they continued to cross the streets with the red hand in front of them flashing ‘no’, saying stop, slow down, pause.
We rode a cab to The Fat Black Pussy Cat, my soon to be married high school girlfriend and I; a bar that hosted men and women in a three to two ratio. The Mets game was on and the screams when we entered were not directed at us. I pushed my way to the bar and ordered two shots and two fancy martinis that I hoped were really fancy considering the price. There were six girls and I knew no one except the bachelorette and it amazed me that they didn’t bring a smorgasbord of glitter and fake penises. Then I thought about the girl and realized that New York and fake penises just didn’t suit her.
The next morning I made my way out of the tiny apartment and into the fresh air, which was a mix of pretzels and smog. I walked to the pharmacy to buy moleskin for my blisters and I hailed a cab to west 46th St, home of my hotel, a sanctuary from boring people and two drink nights. With no one around I walked through central park and into Dean and Deluca for coffee and blueberry crumb cake. I went to see about theatre tickets in Time Square. Legally Blond the musical was playing and I walked into the box office, hopeful. Fourth row seat in the balcony for fifty bucks and I was back to feeling like anything was possible in the city that never sleeps. I ran into a girl that I went to college with, one I hoped to never see again, and I thought about all the people in New York and the irony of this moment.
“Oh hey!” She said in a fake tone, clearly not excited to see me.
“Hi,” I said, not faking any excitement, trying to decide if I should introduce her to my friend or just let it go.
“What are you doing here?” She asked me, as if New York belonged to only her.
“Seeing the musical,” I said, not owing her any explanation.
“I’m living here now” she said smugly, as if I would be intimidated by the mere thought of her inhabiting New York.
“Mmhm,” I looked around the theatre crowded with a mix of people.
“I’m acting,” she said, proud of herself.
“Oh,” I said.
And I offered up nothing of myself or my life because I had nothing to prove to her or to New York.
*
I couldn’t get into Bed or Butter, the two clubs I wore my Chanel to.
“I am a model,” I said and the hostess laughed, a short burst of air expelling from her nose.
“Yea,” she said “everyone’s a model.”
I said, “I’m walking in fashion week next Tuesday.”
“I don’t recognize you,” she said “That means you’re nobody.”
She said it out loud and afterward I wondered if it was true, and how I could get recognized in a city that seems to care nothing about somebodies and even less about nobodies.
And with all my dignity already out on the table, my Chanel and I walked away and went to find a bar that catered to the non famous people. I still paid $20 for a martini, but I was a commoner, because an anorexic hostess had the power to dictate the in-crowd, and because models in New York are as common as taxis.
The next night I went to Buddha Bar, and I wore my leather skinny pants and my Yves Saint Laurent top and I tried to look important but I still wanted to take a picture in front of the giant black Buddha that hung mid-air in the dining area. I walked around admiring the coy ponds and the midnight blue tanks with live jelly fish lit up inside.
“Where are you from?” The waitress asked, smiling.
“I live in New York,” I said, a lie that I thought only I would be on to.
“But where are you from originally?” She asked, clearly categorizing me as an outsider.
“Here,” I said.
And I saw her smirk, calling my lie, leaving me exposed. I was a tourist in New York clothing, and the New Yorkers knew. I shouldn’t care, I thought, but I did. I ate three rolls of sushi and drank four fruity martinis, and under tipped because she hadn’t allowed me the identity I had chosen for the night. After dinner I walked to a sidewalk café and ordered an ice cream sundae. I sipped an espresso martini and allowed it to melt the cool ice cream on my tongue. There was a DJ spinning at the café and I realized that even ice cream sundaes are fancy in New York. I was in the meat packing district, trendy, young, bars and restaurants with alluring people and enticing eats. I called my friends who were meeting me a few streets over and I walked the occupied sidewalks in four inch heels that pinched my feet. My feet could suffer for New York City.
I danced until they turned off the music at 4:30 Sunday morning, giving us shots of luke warm water on our way out. I gave away six phone numbers to six people, one was mine. The cute bartender who said he was an acting student at Tish, who told me I should be a model, who asked if I was from New York, and who was so sincere in saying so that I knew he wasn’t.
“I’m from the west coast,” he said with a smile just cute enough to make me linger a minute
“Me too,” I said smiling a little bit, making deep eye contact and leaning forward.
And he didn’t ask where and neither did I and I went back to my friends and he went back to his customers and I knew he would probably never call because I am forever drawn to that which abandons me. The DJ spun and so did my head and people pressed against me, dripping sweat in the dark. Strangers became friends and friends became best, and there we were in New York, finally allowing skin on skin contact.
We walked to a pizza stand called Rays, but there are Rays pizzas on every New York corner, and the original is harder to find. Everywhere you look in the city there are counterfeits, and I was always searching for the original. But I ordered two slices of the ‘Bianca’ and I folded them in half, taking purposeful bites that filled my mouth with warmth and soaked up vodka from my stomach. It was the best unoriginal I have ever had. My friends laughed and chattered about the night and I got lost in the voices and the noise of the street, the maze of people pushing their way through other people, all trying to get somewhere important at five am on a Sunday.
That afternoon, I dressed up to meet an old boyfriend at The Boathouse. Because I saw it on Sex and the City and he was my Mr. Big, and I wanted to live out that New York fantasy. But he never showed up, and when I called him he said he was sorry, that he couldn’t make it, that maybe we could get together next time. So I found myself lunching alone on the water, eating crab cakes and arugula salad and wondering if happiness runs away from everyone in New York, or just from those that have visions of love and importance, but can’t quite find either in the midst of it all. I ordered crème brule and I picked off the crust, breaking it apart with my fork. I was angry with him for not coming, and I was angrier with myself for not seeing this coming and I realized that New York makes everything a little bit harder.
*
I went to SoHo for some shopping and saw Reese Witherspoon picking through a pile of grey corduroy pants, looking for her size. She was petite and pale, a pretty face and windblown hair, she looked like all the bohemian twenty-somethings I used to see when I lived in Austin. No one seemed to notice her and so I too passed her by, not staring or acting star struck. I bought two sizes up in the same corduroys and I browsed around the store, occasionally glancing at her, as though she may suddenly disappear. I wondered whether people recognized her and didn’t say, or recognized her and didn’t care, and in doing so I realized that in New York, celebrity status only matters in the places non-celebrities try to get in.
I met up with my friend who goes to NYU, a film critic and a margarita lover and he took me to this little Mexican restaurant that looked lost in the Upper East Side. We talked and we drank and I ordered a piece of frozen key lime pie to balance out the margaritas and to see how it compared to my own. We walked back to his apartment, a small loft on a quiet street and there he told me about New York and NYU and his love of everything involving both. I walked back to my hotel room because I had tired of cabs, and even after dark you never walk fifty blocks in the city alone or uninterested. I passed by the American Ballet Company where I had dreamed of going as a young ballerina and I wondered how different my life would be now, dancing inside those walls.
*
My last morning in the city I walked to Rockefeller center, because when I was there before it was February and the ground had been covered in snow and I had gone ice skating. This time people were lunching on the thawed ice rink and eating sandwiches on scattered benches across the square. I pictured the lit up Christmas tree that wasn’t there and how I had always wanted to come to New York at Christmastime with my mom, and how now I would never have the chance. But I would come back anyway, for her and for me, and I would look in all the store windows in December and see the displays of sweaters and scarves and glittery wrapped packages. I would buy a ticket to the Christmas spectacular and watch the Rockettes do their eye high kicks and then I would drink peppermint hot chocolate with marshmallows and watch the snow fall from the window of my hotel. And I started to cry under my big brown sunglasses, though no one noticed or cared, and I thought about what New York could never give back to me and if I stayed too long, everything it might take away.
New York, New York.”
~Sinatra
It was dirtier than I imagined. The subways were sticky hot and offended all five senses. The cab rides were expensive and so was the alcohol. The clubs I dreamed about were exclusive, and required an Amex black card to be accessed. The beautiful people wore big labeled sunglasses and pushed their way past you, in a bigger hurry than those in Los Angeles. The streets were lit up all night and littered with trash; they smelled of urine and hot dogs.
It was more glamorous than I thought. There were drivers that waited for couture shoppers to make their selections. The restaurants served cuisine so foreign and expensive that it rivaled a luxury Lamborghini. The people on Park Avenue all looked like they should be followed by paparazzi and the NYU students walked single file on the sidewalks. Tourists and New Yorkers walked the same sidewalks, but each so distinctively you could separate them with a glance. People tried so hard not to touch each other that I wondered what contagious disease they were trying to avoid, and if I in fact would catch the fear of it too. There was a honk and a yell every moment and no one seemed to notice or care, they continued to cross the streets with the red hand in front of them flashing ‘no’, saying stop, slow down, pause.
We rode a cab to The Fat Black Pussy Cat, my soon to be married high school girlfriend and I; a bar that hosted men and women in a three to two ratio. The Mets game was on and the screams when we entered were not directed at us. I pushed my way to the bar and ordered two shots and two fancy martinis that I hoped were really fancy considering the price. There were six girls and I knew no one except the bachelorette and it amazed me that they didn’t bring a smorgasbord of glitter and fake penises. Then I thought about the girl and realized that New York and fake penises just didn’t suit her.
The next morning I made my way out of the tiny apartment and into the fresh air, which was a mix of pretzels and smog. I walked to the pharmacy to buy moleskin for my blisters and I hailed a cab to west 46th St, home of my hotel, a sanctuary from boring people and two drink nights. With no one around I walked through central park and into Dean and Deluca for coffee and blueberry crumb cake. I went to see about theatre tickets in Time Square. Legally Blond the musical was playing and I walked into the box office, hopeful. Fourth row seat in the balcony for fifty bucks and I was back to feeling like anything was possible in the city that never sleeps. I ran into a girl that I went to college with, one I hoped to never see again, and I thought about all the people in New York and the irony of this moment.
“Oh hey!” She said in a fake tone, clearly not excited to see me.
“Hi,” I said, not faking any excitement, trying to decide if I should introduce her to my friend or just let it go.
“What are you doing here?” She asked me, as if New York belonged to only her.
“Seeing the musical,” I said, not owing her any explanation.
“I’m living here now” she said smugly, as if I would be intimidated by the mere thought of her inhabiting New York.
“Mmhm,” I looked around the theatre crowded with a mix of people.
“I’m acting,” she said, proud of herself.
“Oh,” I said.
And I offered up nothing of myself or my life because I had nothing to prove to her or to New York.
*
I couldn’t get into Bed or Butter, the two clubs I wore my Chanel to.
“I am a model,” I said and the hostess laughed, a short burst of air expelling from her nose.
“Yea,” she said “everyone’s a model.”
I said, “I’m walking in fashion week next Tuesday.”
“I don’t recognize you,” she said “That means you’re nobody.”
She said it out loud and afterward I wondered if it was true, and how I could get recognized in a city that seems to care nothing about somebodies and even less about nobodies.
And with all my dignity already out on the table, my Chanel and I walked away and went to find a bar that catered to the non famous people. I still paid $20 for a martini, but I was a commoner, because an anorexic hostess had the power to dictate the in-crowd, and because models in New York are as common as taxis.
The next night I went to Buddha Bar, and I wore my leather skinny pants and my Yves Saint Laurent top and I tried to look important but I still wanted to take a picture in front of the giant black Buddha that hung mid-air in the dining area. I walked around admiring the coy ponds and the midnight blue tanks with live jelly fish lit up inside.
“Where are you from?” The waitress asked, smiling.
“I live in New York,” I said, a lie that I thought only I would be on to.
“But where are you from originally?” She asked, clearly categorizing me as an outsider.
“Here,” I said.
And I saw her smirk, calling my lie, leaving me exposed. I was a tourist in New York clothing, and the New Yorkers knew. I shouldn’t care, I thought, but I did. I ate three rolls of sushi and drank four fruity martinis, and under tipped because she hadn’t allowed me the identity I had chosen for the night. After dinner I walked to a sidewalk café and ordered an ice cream sundae. I sipped an espresso martini and allowed it to melt the cool ice cream on my tongue. There was a DJ spinning at the café and I realized that even ice cream sundaes are fancy in New York. I was in the meat packing district, trendy, young, bars and restaurants with alluring people and enticing eats. I called my friends who were meeting me a few streets over and I walked the occupied sidewalks in four inch heels that pinched my feet. My feet could suffer for New York City.
I danced until they turned off the music at 4:30 Sunday morning, giving us shots of luke warm water on our way out. I gave away six phone numbers to six people, one was mine. The cute bartender who said he was an acting student at Tish, who told me I should be a model, who asked if I was from New York, and who was so sincere in saying so that I knew he wasn’t.
“I’m from the west coast,” he said with a smile just cute enough to make me linger a minute
“Me too,” I said smiling a little bit, making deep eye contact and leaning forward.
And he didn’t ask where and neither did I and I went back to my friends and he went back to his customers and I knew he would probably never call because I am forever drawn to that which abandons me. The DJ spun and so did my head and people pressed against me, dripping sweat in the dark. Strangers became friends and friends became best, and there we were in New York, finally allowing skin on skin contact.
We walked to a pizza stand called Rays, but there are Rays pizzas on every New York corner, and the original is harder to find. Everywhere you look in the city there are counterfeits, and I was always searching for the original. But I ordered two slices of the ‘Bianca’ and I folded them in half, taking purposeful bites that filled my mouth with warmth and soaked up vodka from my stomach. It was the best unoriginal I have ever had. My friends laughed and chattered about the night and I got lost in the voices and the noise of the street, the maze of people pushing their way through other people, all trying to get somewhere important at five am on a Sunday.
That afternoon, I dressed up to meet an old boyfriend at The Boathouse. Because I saw it on Sex and the City and he was my Mr. Big, and I wanted to live out that New York fantasy. But he never showed up, and when I called him he said he was sorry, that he couldn’t make it, that maybe we could get together next time. So I found myself lunching alone on the water, eating crab cakes and arugula salad and wondering if happiness runs away from everyone in New York, or just from those that have visions of love and importance, but can’t quite find either in the midst of it all. I ordered crème brule and I picked off the crust, breaking it apart with my fork. I was angry with him for not coming, and I was angrier with myself for not seeing this coming and I realized that New York makes everything a little bit harder.
*
I went to SoHo for some shopping and saw Reese Witherspoon picking through a pile of grey corduroy pants, looking for her size. She was petite and pale, a pretty face and windblown hair, she looked like all the bohemian twenty-somethings I used to see when I lived in Austin. No one seemed to notice her and so I too passed her by, not staring or acting star struck. I bought two sizes up in the same corduroys and I browsed around the store, occasionally glancing at her, as though she may suddenly disappear. I wondered whether people recognized her and didn’t say, or recognized her and didn’t care, and in doing so I realized that in New York, celebrity status only matters in the places non-celebrities try to get in.
I met up with my friend who goes to NYU, a film critic and a margarita lover and he took me to this little Mexican restaurant that looked lost in the Upper East Side. We talked and we drank and I ordered a piece of frozen key lime pie to balance out the margaritas and to see how it compared to my own. We walked back to his apartment, a small loft on a quiet street and there he told me about New York and NYU and his love of everything involving both. I walked back to my hotel room because I had tired of cabs, and even after dark you never walk fifty blocks in the city alone or uninterested. I passed by the American Ballet Company where I had dreamed of going as a young ballerina and I wondered how different my life would be now, dancing inside those walls.
*
My last morning in the city I walked to Rockefeller center, because when I was there before it was February and the ground had been covered in snow and I had gone ice skating. This time people were lunching on the thawed ice rink and eating sandwiches on scattered benches across the square. I pictured the lit up Christmas tree that wasn’t there and how I had always wanted to come to New York at Christmastime with my mom, and how now I would never have the chance. But I would come back anyway, for her and for me, and I would look in all the store windows in December and see the displays of sweaters and scarves and glittery wrapped packages. I would buy a ticket to the Christmas spectacular and watch the Rockettes do their eye high kicks and then I would drink peppermint hot chocolate with marshmallows and watch the snow fall from the window of my hotel. And I started to cry under my big brown sunglasses, though no one noticed or cared, and I thought about what New York could never give back to me and if I stayed too long, everything it might take away.
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