Friendly Faces in a Lonely City
In August, I moved from Washington D.C. to New York City for college. Ever since I can remember, I had romanticized the idea of New York, spent hours daydreaming about the gorgeous progressive guy I’d meet in Central Park, the coffees I’d grab in my rush to class, and the outfits I’d throw on as an attempt at careless chic. It was perfect. In my head. I spent so much time romanticizing the cliché and niche aspects of New York with little to no understanding of what it would actually be like.
Despite my hopes, the first week was a bit of a bust. Hurricane Ida traveled all the way from the South to flood the subways of New York, causing classes to be completely cancelled. After only one in person class, I was back to virtual solitude. While that practice might seem routine now, it was incredibly disheartening and difficult to move past. I had all this momentum and adrenaline building up to this moment, only to be cut off so quickly. Without clubs, in person classes, or many spaces to convene in, I spent hours by myself in a tiny room in New York City.
The first few weeks, if I’m honest, were not great. In a city bustling with so much life and energy, it’s incredibly easy to lose yourself in loneliness. I’d spend my weekends alone in my dorm room crying over missing home and feeling like the BIGGEST loser of all time while clicking through every Instagram story of gorgeous people at gorgeous clubs eating gorgeous food and drinking gorgeous drinks with their gorgeous friends. I wasn’t bitter. I promise. Okay, maybe just a little bit, but can you blame me?
After spending a year online and working, I came on campus with a few friends I’d met on Zoom who all live off campus, making it difficult at times to connect with our busy school and work schedules. If I’m being completely honest, I’d never felt lonelier. I would call my parents in tears begging to transfer somewhere with more community and better campus life. I wanted the deep connections I had at my all-girls high school and the sense of sisterhood and family I had there. I fell into such a deep depression, that I’m still struggling with, that made it painful to even leave my room. Walking to the laundry room felt like running a marathon. I stopped eating and resorted to one meal a day that was meager at best. I knew something had to change.
I went home one weekend to visit my family and get away from the loneliness of the city for 48 hours. It was very much needed. I spent time seeing family and friends who reminded me of who I am, what I believe in, and what I’m passionate about. Just sitting, laughing, and loving with some of the most important and impactful people in my life gave me a renewed sense of self and a newfound determination to make this work. So, I packed my little pink duffle, boarded the Northeast Regional back to Penn Station with a mission to go out more, see more, and experience more. These are the stories of two of the people I met one night who convinced me New York is worth pushing for.
A Masked Man Named Brandon and A Colombian Headed to a Jazz Bar
On Halloween weekend two of my friends and I boarded the 1 train to Greenwich to go to a haunted house. This was the first time I had gone out on a weekend since school began and I was bursting with excitement to get out and do things. The rain was torrential and came in waves that dampened any chance of waiting in line for a mediocre bar experience with jump scares and flashing lights. While huddling under the awning of a CVS, we browsed our maps for anything nearby we could go to so as not to make this entire trip a waste. Lo and behold, the famous Stonewall Inn was a block away. The place where the Pride movement began from the Stonewall riots, dripping in history, legacy, and revolution. So off we went, clutching cheap umbrellas that flipped inside out with the winds and snapped along the handle throughout the night. We danced and sang in the humid sticky atmosphere of the Stonewall surrounded by people there for an common experience. Taking a break from the wall-to-wall people, we stepped outside under the awning, breathing in smoke, and giggling under the lights of the bars around us, when from a nearby bar, out came Brandon, a bearded man in a black jumpsuit with eyelids wrapped in glittery blue eyeshadow and his face covered in a bedazzled Freddy Krueger mask he made himself. Consumed with intoxication, he stumbled over to us, slurring his words and laughing to himself, while his friend fretted from behind. He immediately walked up to me and grabbed my shoulders. In normal circumstances, I most likely would have screamed or freaked out, or grabbed my pepper spray, but something in his gaze made me pause.
He had piercing green eyes that held you captive for a moment, lit up by the flickering street lights and the lighter of the man next to us. He sized me up for a moment, squinted hard, and said through slurred words, “This city is a bitch.” I stayed quiet for a moment before a giggle escaped. He leaned in close, held a long pointed finger to the tip of my frigid nose, and said “No, you listen to me. It’s a bitch. But we’re bigger bitches.” He kept a serious expression for a long pause before a large grin pulled across his lips and his teeth escaped showing off the small tooth gems on his front two teeth. He let out a puff of air and requested we take a picture together because “Now…NOW we are BEST friends.” We snapped a picture before his friend collected him to go on their way.
As we watched them advance down the street towards the Subway, a man stepped out of an adjacent bar with an old messenger bag with a long strap covered in antique patches from different countries. The brown leather of the bag sagged in relief as he placed the withering satchel on an abandoned fold up chair lying on its side against the front of the bar. He wore a thick brown jacket and a gray Kangaroo cap on his head that reminded me of the one my dad would wear when it got cold on our walks to school. He gave us a yellow toothed grin as he took a drag of a cigarette and leaned against a scaffolding pole crossing a long arm across his body. He squinted in a way that implied he was evaluating us before he nodded slightly scanned his eyes to the ground then back up to ours with a sly smirk pulled across his lips and said, “So what are you all doing here tonight?” We explained our adventures and he nodded thoughtfully before telling us he lives in Los Angeles working in advertising. I asked if he liked America or Colombia better to which he replied through a raspy chuckle, “What do you think?” He took a moment to breathe in a deep drag of the cigarette and looked up at the sky above, squinting as if looking for the stars covered by the smog of the city. He looked back at us before quietly admitting, “America is a beautiful country full of corporate greed that controls the freedom we think we deserve. Ironic isn’t it? New York is an incredible city. You meet the most wonderful people here, but it’s a city run by capitalism and that greed I’m so keen on mentioning.” I mulled over his words and jotted them down, as he collected his bag and invited us to a nearby jazz bar which we politely declined. We re-entered the bar and I couldn’t help but sit on a sticky stool and think about the words of Michael and the man from Colombia, knowing that neither of them would remember those interactions, but I would think about it enough to write a blog post about it, that not many people will read, but will mean a lot to me.
While the events may seem inconsequential, random, fabricated, or even downright strange, they resonated with me in a way I hadn’t experienced for a long time. Maybe it was the familiar way the man in the mask sized me up and the warmth of the lights reflected in his eyes. Maybe it was the way the man from Columbia offered advice so easily as if it just rolled off of his tongue without a second thought - like a memorized poem or the recitation of your favorite verse. Maybe it was the air of the city or the feeling of the rain smearing my mascara. Maybe it was the feeling of being welcomed in by strangers to a city full of diversity. Maybe it was the way this felt like a defining moment that would become a core memory. Or maybe it was the fumes of the smoke around us that made that moment feel like flying.
Whatever it was, it worked.
