Lovely apartment. Nice enough building. Gorgeous block. Best locale. Greatest city.
I was prepared never to come back after Cambridge, so these last almost three years have been a - at times difficult, certainly character-building - blessing and a gift. Auckland knows how much I adore its charms and need its warm embrace right now. Of course it’s home. But not like here. Not like this.
Where I’ve been an adult longer than anywhere else. Where, through heartbreak, unrequited crushes, worries about immigration (both personal and national; JFK and the travel ban were the week my bed arrived), parental illness, long (long) hours at work, insomnia, surgery, women’s marches, Thanksgiving Day parades, marathon finishes, sketch comedy classes, standup nights, therapy sessions, movies and talks and flat whites at @nyhistory and sometimes just Sundays in the Fall or the Spring, when I’ve picked up the Times, had a haircut, sat at Joe, eaten a cookie, and read the Weddings section, I’ve really, truly, been able to be me.
There aren’t a lot of places where an unfit chap of Indian origin, Kiwi citizenship, confused accent, somewhat middle eastern connections, a few useless degrees, and unearned delusions of grandeur and aspirations to greatness can feel like he belongs. Somehow the stretch of 77th St between Central Park West and Columbus managed it.
I wonder if I’ll ever feel the same way about any place again. #uws