a farewell to New York

On my last day in New York, I hopped the turnstile. The debit card I used for tap-to-pay had stopped working as the screen in front of me flashed 'card not accepted,' a sure sign New York was kicking me out. Bracing my arms, I thrust my body over the iron bars and landed swiftly on the other side. I rushed through the station and tried not to look back.

In so many ways, leaving New York felt like leaving a relationship that was no longer meant to be. One that I, so painstakingly held onto because admitting it was time to leave felt scarier than convincing myself to stay. How it often felt easier to continue pouring energy into something without regard for receiving anything in return. Wishing hopefully that one day things might change. When in reality we both knew it wasn’t meant to be. Sometimes I wonder if it was me or New York that pushed the other away, or if it was a mutual turning of the backs. 

I often tell myself I could’ve tried harder; I could’ve sucked up the extra money in rent, taken out a loan, hustled harder on job applications, or generated a supplemental income. Only to find myself acquainted with a list of grievances standing in the way.

Filthy streets and trash-lined sidewalks. Peculiar smells on the subway. Unkempt parks. Rats and roaches running rampant.

Rush hour. The L train not running on weekends. Frequent stops and starts in taxi cabs leading to car sickness. Uber surges. Shared rides crammed with two drunk interns making out in the backseat.

Summer interns. Tourists. Two-week (minimum) waitlists for restaurants in the West Village. Lines outside coffee shops. Searching for an apartment on StreetEasy. Exorbitant rent prices. Construction sites starting at 7 a.m. Scaffolding. Hosting friends for dinner on my bedroom floor. A single $20 glass of wine.

It’s the cost that comes with living in the “concrete jungle where dreams are made of”.

But lately I’m asking myself if this holds true. If New York is no longer the place I dream of, was it really New York I fell in love with, or simply the possibility of more?

In truth, I think many of us (New York expats) push our grievances aside for the dream of living in the New York that is portrayed to us so glamorously on TV shows like Sex and The City, Gossip Girl, How I Met Your Mother, and Friends. An idealized lifestyle in which the large couch in the coffee shop is always empty, the streets of the Upper East Side are finely manicured, and your best friend's dad owns the richest hotel on the block. I started Girls this year and found it almost so painstakingly realistic that I quit watching halfway through.

I first fell in love with New York sitting on the uneven floor of my friend's sixth-floor walk-up apartment in Washington Square Park, where the shower was exactly big enough for one, and I shared the bottom bed of a bunk bed with my best friend. The following summer, we shared a one-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side. My days consisted of juicing celery in a sticky basement and serving coffee to customers in SoHo. The days were long, but my heart was full.

In the fall, I became an online student, doubling my workload as a barista from 7 to 3 and completing coursework at night. Our small, two-bedroom apartment in Chinatown was sparse with furniture; we didn’t have much, but we had hopes and dreams. The pandemic cut those dreams short. Before I knew it, I was on a plane back to Arizona, shattering everything I had worked toward.

When I finally returned to New York, I lived in a small studio apartment in the heart of SoHo. I traded a slew of creative internships for a comfortable tech job where I made a steady salary to afford my rent. Friday bars and catered lunches, annual summer parties, and trips abroad were enough to keep my ambitions at bay.

I learned how to contribute to the hustle culture that existed so vibrantly in New York, waking up before 7 and coming home after 10. I let my job define me and what I should want, caring only about making a promotion or adding another $5K to my salary. Turns out I’d been caught in the never-ending rat race of living in New York in your twenties—spending money on overpriced martinis and large olives with blocks of fine Parmesan, only to fall deeper into debt while working a soul-sucking 9-to-5 job and living for the weekends.

What comes next I often refer to as my personal Great Awakening. After a summer abroad, I moved to Brooklyn to live in a three-bedroom apartment in East Williamsburg. Embracing a slower pace of life and no longer succumbing to the noise around me, I let go of the idea that New York was the only place destined for me.

In five years, I lived in a one-bedroom on the Upper East Side, a two-bedroom on the fifth floor of a building in Chinatown, a studio apartment in the heart of SoHo, and a three-bedroom in East Williamsburg. These are the spaces that held me, raised me, watched me fall and stand back up again countless times. The spaces of my early twenties, full of discovery and wonder about the world and who I would be in it.

And if you’re wondering, I will miss New York—the subway performers, the communal feeling of hopping on the train at rush hour, the gourmet grocery stores, and the expensive restaurants. I'll miss the tourists on Prince Street, the jazz band performing on weekends, the crowds outside Café Lyria on a Tuesday morning, the plastic to-go cups, the greasy bacon egg and cheese from the deli across the street, the attitude of the servers at Kiki’s, and the sweat dripping down my face after a Pilates class at Public Hotel.

As for what’s next, I’ll be spending the next three months in Copenhagen where I’ll enjoy sipping my coffee out of a ceramic mug, cooking fresh meals in my apartment, and riding my bike across town.