New York Minute.

The turning of seasons is regarded with suspicion and caution in New York City. The coming of Spring, in particular, is always a flip of a coin. Towards the end of Winter New Yorkers are graced with what is referred to as “Fool's Spring”; a teaser among the bitter cold days. Then a few tropical storms followed by wind chill… just to keep everyone on their toes. Traditionally, the city subscribes to the superstition of the Groundhog Prediction; if the critter sees its shadow that's six more weeks of winter. No shadow predicts an early spring, even though we all know to expect the almighty Fool’s Spring.

It is a dreary April night; crisp and dewey. Far removed from the stubborn chill of the season passed, it’s a pleasant surprise, considering the last two weeks were really starting to convince me to put my jackets away and break out the mini dresses. It’s funny how universal the yearning for greener grass, no matter where you are. In the height of the summer humidity we will all be missing Winter; it always moves so fast. In the Big Apple the idea of a New York Minute is far underestimated.

In the first two or three years it would feel like you’d just arrived. The first year is always the hardest, regardless of the place. New York moves at a constant ninety miles an hour, urgently and impatiently whoever ends up here forcibly picks up their stride. Inevitably, discomfort becomes a norm until the next norm, and so on. It dawned on me not long ago that it’s already been six years since I made the leap and moved across the country. A New York Minute, indeed.

So easy is it to question every decision ever made that would land a person in such a place. Within mere seconds, a soul would think to themselves, “ I don’t belong here” knowing with full conviction that there would yet to be a battle. One would call it ‘The battle’, moreso the thing that challenges you beyond all measure. For a transplant, everything about such a would only invite the opportunity offered only by oneself. The opportunity to seek out discomfort.

Rain patters against my bedroom window, giving the illusion of blissful nothingness. I roll over in bed to gaze at the time; 10:20PM. “How long has it been?” I ask myself as I peel myself from my sheets to relieve myself. I’m supposed to go out tonight, it being Friday. I sigh in amusement, “Don’t mind me”, I roll over again.

The idea of ‘FOMO’ was only just introduced to me in recent times. I had never experienced a city that suffered from such an ailment as much as New York. There’s always something to do, someone to see, some-thing to fulfill… I contemplate staying in for the hundredth time. Nothing is keeping me in, and nothing is keeping me out. I get out of bed and head to the bathroom.

The event in mind is a birthday– a house party of sorts. Not far from me and given that I had already confirmed (twice) I told myself already that I would show my face. Something I always appreciated about this city was the simple fact of how many plot lines it offers. One could go out and run into anything, or anyone, knowing full well that it would all be chalked up to being “New York”. After a prolonged self-pep-talk and a shot of vodka, I wrapped my scarf tightly around my face and stepped out into the night.

Welcoming, was the brisk touch of air that quickly took hold of my gloveless hands. “Shit, forgot them.” I mutter to myself as I watch my feet down the sidewalk. I reside in Brooklyn, off the J Train which stands conveniently a couple of blocks away, and the party in question was in Manhattan, off of Delancey. I tell myself that I’ll warm up as I walk, which is usually true, and it was.

I get to the station, climb the stairs, swipe my metro card, climb more stairs, and walk to the nearest bench. A slight breeze, I can’t believe I’m outside at this hour, but this city has conditioned me to move this way– it's no big deal to be leaving the house at nearly eleven o’clock at night…many would say it’s an early hour, at that. Within a New York Minute, I find myself at my stop: Delancey-Essex and I rush off and out into the night once again. Still,I long for the comfort of my bedroom, “I don’t belong here…” the words escape my lips as I approach the bar.

The girl at the door, Dot, greets me warmly; she offers me a cigarette. I stand outside amongst the small crowd of smokers, keeping to myself, pondering. “Life is a gift, always.” I think to myself, though it requires strict measures of protection. The night life of New York City is a mistress, and she takes on many forms.

Having worked in the night life, I have gained respect and admiration for the hustle that it takes to survive in a place like this. Six years in, I now acknowledge that living in this city requires sacrifice and endurance. The highs are immaculate, allowing anyone to feel like they can conquer it all. Alas…the lows are dastardly, leaving little room for optimism.

If I could offer a small morsel of wisdom to anyone freshly arrived in the city, I would first advise them to appreciate all the decisions it took to get here. See, I am a firm believer in predestination, and the ideology that comes with that is simply the acceptance that it was all gonna happen anyway. It matters not who a person is or what sins that they have committed or what they think they deserve. The simple fact is that everything they have done in their life has led them here.

Here, the worst and the best place on earth. So much romanticism for this city and yet so little acknowledgement of the perils that await once you arrive. New York is where you are most able to learn about yourself, in the best and worst ways. It all comes down to a matter of choice. Choosing to lean into the discomfort that was always waiting for you, that was gonna happen anyway…or simply not.

The turning of the seasons, however, are one of the few things that I can rely on time after time. No matter the time or place, I am always able to look forward to change– a new start. I toss my cigarette and walk in.