"Cold like some magnificent skyline,
Out of my reach but always in my eye line."
I went home to New York for Thanksgiving, and arrived at dawn in the city. Michelle picked me up from JFK after my redeye from San Francisco, and we embarked on four days of ritual and quality time together. We shopped in the Union Square Farmers' Market for veggies and herbs, in Whole Foods for the remaining ingredients, and then headed to our favorite neighborhood Chinese place Baby Buddha for a farewell lunch (they're closing after however many tens of years). Michelle had brined a 12-pound turkey for three days, spatchcocked it, and then grilled it. That's right. Grilled.
On Thanksgiving, I took advantage of the cloudy weather, and the lack of people on the West Side Highway – oh sorry, now it's the Chelsea Waterside Park ::eyeroll:: – to get in a run before the gorging.
After Junior High, I stopped running competitively, and completely. Even when I used to run, I was a sprinter, and rarely ran any race longer than the 200m. I started running again in San Francisco early one Sunday morning, just because I wanted to breathe in more of the city. At that time, the streets were still quiet, and empty: perfect for my loud wheezing, and lumbering pace. From that first run, I realized that 1) my boobs have grown since Junior High 2) the rest of my body is also very different from my prepubescent body, proportionally and 3) running is damn hard to take up again after a 15-year hiatus. I labored through three miles, walking when I couldn't stand the cramp near my right Achilles, and trundled home beat, but exhilarated. The next run felt easier, and slowly, I've built up my strength again.
Running on the West Side Highway's bike path was really nice. There's landscaping along the path now, and I ran up a platform to the tall grasses; I felt transported out of the city to some boardwalk above the sand dunes on Fire Island. Running downtown, I looked towards Stuyvesant and Battery Park City. There was construction for more park space, but it was out of the way of the path, and I only had shrubbery, river, sky, and skyline to focus on. Two tracks from Keane played on repeat, and I switched between pushing myself harder during the faster song, and gentler jogging to the slower song. There are some songs that are just so perfect to run to. When I used to jog on the treadmill at MIT's Zesiger Center during those Boston summers, I would run and run and run to songs I associated with certain people, and any confusing feelings about them would be forced out of my system. Running back uptown, I saw SoHo, the Meatpacking District, and Chelsea in all their sparkling glory. Luxury condos, luxury hotels, luxeluxeluxe shoved down my gasping throat, and yet, it was still beautiful, because I don't wish it to have stayed shitty and dangerous. I am just still shocked over the rapid change in these areas, and I miss my childhood when these neighborhoods were not overrun with chicks breaking their ankles in high heels walking on cobblestones, and with dudes drowning in eau de douche. Alas, money brought them here, and money also brought this beautiful path I was running on. It's a twisted feeling, this feeling about money.
I am glad I left. The past several months in San Francisco forced me to live a braver life, one where I had to relearn some basic skills that I had lost over the years mired in a demanding job. I wanted to spend a good chunk of my visit by myself, so I can traipse at my leisure through old stomping grounds. Even when I was alone, I found myself reaching out to strangers to chat, or to exchange random pleasantries. And I was comfortable with it. It was even easier in restaurants and bars to start chatting with the people around me. I remember when I used to think that that was one of the most difficult things to do, because it was always awkward for me, or because it always had felt unnatural. Now, poof! I also biked around Brooklyn with Michelle. She took me biking in traffic for the first time a couple of months before I moved, and it was a nerve-wracking experience. This time, I sped ahead, handled body and machine with aplomb, felt no fear, and reveled in the feeling of freedom on a bicycle speeding through the brownstoned streets of Carroll Gardens and Park Slope. I saw Brooklyn and New York through different eyes, and it would not have happened without my move to San Francisco. My old home has become even richer because of the experiences I had elsewhere.
After leaving my old job, I was averse to looking back at it. I looked it fully in the face today when I went back to visit old coworkers and old managers. After lunch and coffee with some old colleagues, I walked around the floors, saw some new spaces that were not part of the company before, and caught up briefly with people whose memories I had pushed out of my head for over a year. Going back into that building where so many strong feelings had coursed through me, I only remembered the positive ones. I know that I had cried, had yelled, had cursed there. I know that I had felt helpless, and angry there. Now, there's only gladness that I can sit down with the people who are still there, and laugh over past experiences. The past year has not been kind, and it shows in a lot of my old coworkers' faces. We still hugged, felt happy for a moment, and had good wishes for one another upon our farewells. Despite 70-hour work weeks there for two years, I had forgotten what floor my group is on. Riding the elevator all the way to the top, I only thought about all that I wanted to tell old friends of my new adventures, of my new life, outside of that little world we all used to inhabit.
I fly back to SF in a few hours...to my new home, and to this:
<3<3
