Homecoming: NYC

I trudge along a maze of airport corridors into the vast holding pen of Customs inspection.  As I wearily file into place, an old man beside me shakes his head and gripes, “They couldn’t open another line?”  His familiar cadence confirms I am home – New York City.

On the bus to Manhattan I listen to the backlog of messages on my cell phone.  “Jeff, where are you?  Pick up the phone!” demands my friend Oskar in his brusque Swedish accent.  “We saw Normal Heart.  You have to see it before it closes Sunday.  Um, anyway…call me.”  Click.  I feel a twinge of regret, realizing the show is one of the bountiful cultural treats beyond my schedule and budget.

Like me (and almost everyone I know), Oskar fled to New York to create a life on his terms.  For three centuries the city has drawn hopefuls, and their cumulative dreams and ambitions infuse the air.  It’s palpable; it’s stimulating…it’s exhausting.  Many residents occasionally need to escape the intensity…and then eagerly return.

At the steps to the subway station I struggle against a tide of people rushing upward.  No one gives an inch to allow my descent, which irks me.  New Yorkers are forever competing for space, whether on sidewalks, in narrow store aisles, taxicabs, or decent apartments.

Waiting on the subway platform, sweat begins to pour down my forehead and back in the thick, stifling heat.  A man in Jewish Orthodox gabardine mops his brow with a handkerchief, a woman in a bright African caftan fans herself with a newspaper, and a frumpy transsexual dabs her melting makeup with a tissue.  United in misery, we rush into the air-conditioned train when it arrives.

I ascend onto Lenox Avenue and find the sidewalks of Harlem bustling with activity.  My neighbors have fled their sweltering apartments to enjoy boisterous outdoor gatherings.  Music blasts from boom boxes and open apartment windows.  Folks sit on lawn chairs or milk crates, barbequing, drinking and playing cards while kids run and shriek on sidewalks and stoops.  The century-old brownstones and low-rise apartment buildings are a contrast to the mighty skyline to the south.

The city offers a world of culinary options, but with meager funds, my best option is the grocery store.  “Hi,” I say to the young African-American cashier as she scans my items without looking up.  No response.  While waiting for approval of my debit card, she looks past me, vaguely annoyed.  “Thanks,” I say, taking my bags.  Again…nothing.  She appears to be rude, but I believe her apathy is armor, protection from a demanding public.  I’ll keep trying to break through.

I am relieved to find my apartment as I left it, except for a fresh layer of the city’s perpetual dust.  Sinking onto my couch, I reach for my favorite creature comforts (my TV and laptop), and reflect on my journey.  Why does this crowded, messy, expensive, and exasperating place process such a magnetic pull?  Why is this the only place that is home?