In less than a week, I will reach my one month anniversary of being in New York. However, I did not start falling in love with New York until nearly two weeks after I arrived, May 12. It was a wonderful day. We took the afternoon train to SoHo. I bought a necklace that has a fish on it. I was wearing a new dress. It started raining. We got lost. We got soaked. Then, at the end of the night when I was tired and suffering sugar withdrawals, I heard a man in the subway playing the title track from The Umbrellas of Cherbourg on his accordion.
My heart lept across the platform, my aorta entertwining with the luscious meanderings of that sad song.
Thus was the beginning of my love affair.
My desire has only heightened since. Last week I found one of my favorite albums of all time, "Chet Baker Sings," on vinyl in the Village. Yesterday I went to what I thought would be a hipster/indie show, only it ended up being the most svelte experimental jazz in all of Manhattan. Today I went to The Daily Show and Al Gore was the guest. Afterward, we went and lounged in Central Park, listening to the songs the air sings as frisbees glide through it and the snapping fingers of the grass as barefoot children run through it.
I know why Paul Simon writes so many songs about New York now. Bodegas. Stoops. Diamonds. I know why Woody Allen films so many films in New York now. Dixieland. Village. Soon-Yi. (Just kidding).
New York is the best lover I've ever known. Patient, understanding, ready to listen, vibrant. I am attached.
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