It was cold outside. And not the cute and fuzzy type of cold that you associate with the holidays, but the cold that makes you want to whine about it. It was so easy to complain about New York City winters because the wind would race down the long avenues and hit you in the face when you turned the corner.
I should have been socializing, but instead I was standing in the middle of the apartment, thinking about how cold I was. Why did we have to leave the window open in January? Oh right the NYU kids wanted to smoke. Honestly I couldn’t tell you why I was at this apartment in the East Village. I was hanging out with Sandra this afternoon, and come 8pm her phone lit up with invitations from her NYU friends.
I was interrupted from my sulking by a warm laugh from across the room. It jumbled my thoughts to hear something so joyful. It was the new guy, Dean, who had just arrived to New York from California. I had never met anyone from the West, so I introduced myself.
“How do you like it here?” I asked.
“Man, it’s freezing here. I only brought one sweatshirt,” he said grumpily. “I’m just trying not to think of the palm trees out West.”
I had always associated warm winters with South America. I heard even Texas got snow, not that I would know because I had only ever traveled around the North East. News of a USA without harsh wind chill was enough to capture my attention. The rest of the night in that small living room I listened to Dean’s stories about an America I had never known. I thought New York City was diverse enough, but Dean told us about all new different types of people. What was I doing in this frigid steel city? It was time to find the palm trees in the warm breeze out West.
I walked down the narrow aisle of the Amtrak car. The leather armchairs, the rug, and the passengers were all gray. At least the Subway has character and a sense of excitement. The car was full of weary commuters heading to New Jersey. My plan was to stay with my aunt before my trip out West. It was good that I was finally visiting her; I always had an excuse not to go, mostly because I would rather not visit Jersey.
I walked down the aisle, calculating: who should I sit next to? There was an open seat next to a woman who was dressed elegantly, quietly looking out the window, and I sat next to her. In her lap there was a journal, and once the train started moving she snapped out of her reverie and continued her journal entry. I notice she wrote in French. I couldn't help but ask,
“Excusez-moi, vous êtes française?”
“Oui, je fais un voyage partout les États Unis.”
I asked her what she thought about New York. She loved the city, the drugstores, the New Yorker, the jazz in Harlem. She had seen more of the city that I had seen in the past year. I was happy to be sitting next to someone who also felt the loss of leaving this city. We looked out the window together in silence for a few moments.
She then asked me about my trip. I told her I was also on a journey across America. It sounded more real once I said it.
“Good. You must live an authentic life, a life of your own choosing. Americans don’t realize the evil in being complacent with their ways.” She seemed surprised herself that these words came out of her mouth. I’m glad she was honest though—I needed to know that I was making the right choice.
“Indeed, breaking from protocol could get people like George killed.” (Wilkerson 50)
I was driving through Missouri. I was pretty terrified of driving, especially in my uncle’s old car from the seventies, but at least there wasn’t much I could crash into at the moment. Just more and more farmland stretching on cheerfully.
I was so bored from hours of driving that it took me a couple of seconds to notice that there was a small police car behind me, signaling for me to pull over. I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong until wow I realized I didn’t have my seatbelt on. I came to a stop, wondering what this encounter was going to be like, given it was the first time I had been pulled over.
An overweight policeman with pasty skin stepped out of his run-down police car and lumbered over to my window. I put on a wide smile while I rolled down my window. He proceeded to point out that I was not wearing my seatbelt.
“I’m so sorry sir I had just stopped to take a picture and forgot to put it on again. I’m not from around here. I can assure you I was about to put it on again.”
I was using my sweet, innocent, 6-year old voice. The policeman looked bored. Just as I was finishing my last sentence, a car whizzing by caught his attention.
“That one’s definitely over,” he said, and he swiftly marched back to his car and proceeded to follow the speeding vehicle—an old vehicle with faded paint.
It was so easy to get out of that. I couldn’t help but think of the encounters I had been seeing in the news between black men and white policemen, and how quickly those situations escalated. I could squirm out of minor infractions, while those black men were killed for just as much.
This song that has been playing on the radio nonstop has been annoying the heck out of me. The lyrics are so vague and meaningless it bothers me. As the singer chants “We ain’t ever getting older,” I wonder if the Chainsmokers are actually reflecting on mortality or just finding a catchy phrase for intoxicated teenagers to sing along to. I must admit the beat is extremely catchy.
I’m driving through Virginia, through small towns, and I have no interest in interacting with people. Most of my thoughts have been dedicated to avoiding Closer on on the radio, but it seems to pop up every ten minutes. It seems like it’s been the only song I’ve been hearing my whole life.
If I had to choose a song to listen to for eternity, it would definitely not be an electronic song. Probably some alternative rock, maybe Apartment, because to me it sounds authentic. I think I would be driven crazy by a cheery Plain White T’s song.
I’m spending a couple of days in D.C. with a friend. The monuments, the streets, the people, are all crisp and clean. I loved going to the museums when I was little, but now this intense neatness seems inauthentic and disturbing. I hope that my life amounts to something more organic, even if it does seem more messy.
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ReplyDeleteLeaving the Cold
ReplyDeleteIt was cold outside. And not the cute and fuzzy type of cold that you associate with the holidays, but the cold that makes you want to whine about it. It was so easy to complain about New York City winters because the wind would race down the long avenues and hit you in the face when you turned the corner.
I should have been socializing, but instead I was standing in the middle of the apartment, thinking about how cold I was. Why did we have to leave the window open in January? Oh right the NYU kids wanted to smoke. Honestly I couldn’t tell you why I was at this apartment in the East Village. I was hanging out with Sandra this afternoon, and come 8pm her phone lit up with invitations from her NYU friends.
I was interrupted from my sulking by a warm laugh from across the room. It jumbled my thoughts to hear something so joyful. It was the new guy, Dean, who had just arrived to New York from California. I had never met anyone from the West, so I introduced myself.
“How do you like it here?” I asked.
“Man, it’s freezing here. I only brought one sweatshirt,” he said grumpily. “I’m just trying not to think of the palm trees out West.”
I had always associated warm winters with South America. I heard even Texas got snow, not that I would know because I had only ever traveled around the North East. News of a USA without harsh wind chill was enough to capture my attention. The rest of the night in that small living room I listened to Dean’s stories about an America I had never known. I thought New York City was diverse enough, but Dean told us about all new different types of people. What was I doing in this frigid steel city? It was time to find the palm trees in the warm breeze out West.
I walked down the narrow aisle of the Amtrak car. The leather armchairs, the rug, and the passengers were all gray. At least the Subway has character and a sense of excitement. The car was full of weary commuters heading to New Jersey. My plan was to stay with my aunt before my trip out West. It was good that I was finally visiting her; I always had an excuse not to go, mostly because I would rather not visit Jersey.
ReplyDeleteI walked down the aisle, calculating: who should I sit next to? There was an open seat next to a woman who was dressed elegantly, quietly looking out the window, and I sat next to her. In her lap there was a journal, and once the train started moving she snapped out of her reverie and continued her journal entry. I notice she wrote in French. I couldn't help but ask,
“Excusez-moi, vous êtes française?”
“Oui, je fais un voyage partout les États Unis.”
I asked her what she thought about New York. She loved the city, the drugstores, the New Yorker, the jazz in Harlem. She had seen more of the city that I had seen in the past year. I was happy to be sitting next to someone who also felt the loss of leaving this city. We looked out the window together in silence for a few moments.
She then asked me about my trip. I told her I was also on a journey across America. It sounded more real once I said it.
“Good. You must live an authentic life, a life of your own choosing. Americans don’t realize the evil in being complacent with their ways.” She seemed surprised herself that these words came out of her mouth. I’m glad she was honest though—I needed to know that I was making the right choice.
“Indeed, breaking from protocol could get people like George killed.” (Wilkerson 50)
ReplyDeleteI was driving through Missouri. I was pretty terrified of driving, especially in my uncle’s old car from the seventies, but at least there wasn’t much I could crash into at the moment. Just more and more farmland stretching on cheerfully.
I was so bored from hours of driving that it took me a couple of seconds to notice that there was a small police car behind me, signaling for me to pull over. I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong until wow I realized I didn’t have my seatbelt on. I came to a stop, wondering what this encounter was going to be like, given it was the first time I had been pulled over.
An overweight policeman with pasty skin stepped out of his run-down police car and lumbered over to my window. I put on a wide smile while I rolled down my window. He proceeded to point out that I was not wearing my seatbelt.
“I’m so sorry sir I had just stopped to take a picture and forgot to put it on again. I’m not from around here. I can assure you I was about to put it on again.”
I was using my sweet, innocent, 6-year old voice. The policeman looked bored. Just as I was finishing my last sentence, a car whizzing by caught his attention.
“That one’s definitely over,” he said, and he swiftly marched back to his car and proceeded to follow the speeding vehicle—an old vehicle with faded paint.
It was so easy to get out of that. I couldn’t help but think of the encounters I had been seeing in the news between black men and white policemen, and how quickly those situations escalated. I could squirm out of minor infractions, while those black men were killed for just as much.
The Fourth Day:
ReplyDeleteThis song that has been playing on the radio nonstop has been annoying the heck out of me. The lyrics are so vague and meaningless it bothers me. As the singer chants “We ain’t ever getting older,” I wonder if the Chainsmokers are actually reflecting on mortality or just finding a catchy phrase for intoxicated teenagers to sing along to. I must admit the beat is extremely catchy.
I’m driving through Virginia, through small towns, and I have no interest in interacting with people. Most of my thoughts have been dedicated to avoiding Closer on on the radio, but it seems to pop up every ten minutes. It seems like it’s been the only song I’ve been hearing my whole life.
If I had to choose a song to listen to for eternity, it would definitely not be an electronic song. Probably some alternative rock, maybe Apartment, because to me it sounds authentic. I think I would be driven crazy by a cheery Plain White T’s song.
I’m spending a couple of days in D.C. with a friend. The monuments, the streets, the people, are all crisp and clean. I loved going to the museums when I was little, but now this intense neatness seems inauthentic and disturbing. I hope that my life amounts to something more organic, even if it does seem more messy.