First night back home in NYC
The best part about flying into New York at night is getting to see the Empire State building and the Manhattan skyline illuminated against the dark sky. (It used to be the twin towers, but, well, you know). Being a native New Yorker who caught the traveling bug early, I've seen this view several times over, and every time it's just as spectacular. Tonight was a particularly special one though. About five minutes before the landing strip came into view, I spotted the red white and blue lights of the Empire State Building, and it took my breath away, as usual. Then--and here's where I sometimes think that my life is in fact an overly sentimental movie with a heavy-handed director--just to the right of this awesome monument to New York industry, giant fireworks exploded in successive bundles of color and light. I kid you not people, I could see fireworks going off above the Manhattan skyline as my plane landed in Newark airport. Not being completely delusional, I'm sure there was some reason other than my homecoming for this display and I'll no doubt find out at some random point in the future. But for now, a part of me would like to believe that it was my heart doing a tiny little dance in my eyes to celebrate my return home. ... Did I mention this was a sentimental moment? Don't worry, I'm not usually this way, much.
My parents are waiting for me at the gate. My mom runs up to me first, flattering me with motherly observations like "you lost weight!" (and she seems disappointed at this) while my dad hangs behind, just smiling a big dopey grin (I take after him so probably had one on my face too) and then when I got close enough, giving me a big bear hug and kiss on the cheek. I'm pretty sure my father thinks one hug is all he gets per reunion. So he pats my back as well, one too many times, and understates, "good to have you back kid." pat pat. "Glad to see you." pat pat.
Anyway, despite this loving moment at baggage claim, not ten minutes pass by before we slip into our familiar and familial routines on the car ride home. My mother tries to give me a shopping bag with a week's worth of her cooking and some clothing she's bought me from her favorite stores (which of course, is not my style at all and we both know she's secretly hoping none of it fits and she gets to keep them for herself). From exits 11-14 on the NJ Turnpike my father and I debate who is really responsible for the horrific aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. The conversation drifts awkwardly into the subject of another terrorist attack on NY as we drive through the suffocatingly long Lincoln Tunnel. By the time we reach midtown, I feel like I'd never left. We drop my bags off at my apartment (well, technically it's my great aunt's place, which I've been subletting for the past three years and am staying in for the next two months while I'm in NY working on set), then walk to Patsy's Pizza across the street. Two food truths about LA which I learned from my friend and former Columbia classmate Eric: Pizza and Bagels on the West Coast are just not as good. Something to do with the water quality affecting the dough? Whatever it is, it's true. Pizza and Bagels: just not as good. They should make T Shirts there that say this to warn the tourists. I had somehow managed to avoid eating both for nearly the entire three months I was in LA, except for the time I got suckered into going to a California Pizza Kitchen at the mall, and you know, when in Orange County....
I didn't expect to become so used to the LA lifestyle in just three months, but I have to admit, I felt like a total stranger in my old neighborhood. The streets seemed crowded with people for 10pm on a Saturday night, and there was so much trash everywhere, so much noise, so much frenetic energy. Even while standing in my bathroom brushing my teeth later that night, I could hear the traffic driving by 9 stories below. And my neighbor coughing through the wall. The neighbor I've never seen though I lived in this apartment for two and a half years before moving to LA in May, whom I know watches Law and Order almost every night and one time blasted Free Bird at 2am in the morning. Yes, I think as I wearily drift off to the sound of cars honking, I'm back, for two months, to assist my producer boss on set of our first feature film together. This is New York, my home, my love, my thorn and, as the song goes, this bird you cannot change.
My parents are waiting for me at the gate. My mom runs up to me first, flattering me with motherly observations like "you lost weight!" (and she seems disappointed at this) while my dad hangs behind, just smiling a big dopey grin (I take after him so probably had one on my face too) and then when I got close enough, giving me a big bear hug and kiss on the cheek. I'm pretty sure my father thinks one hug is all he gets per reunion. So he pats my back as well, one too many times, and understates, "good to have you back kid." pat pat. "Glad to see you." pat pat.
Anyway, despite this loving moment at baggage claim, not ten minutes pass by before we slip into our familiar and familial routines on the car ride home. My mother tries to give me a shopping bag with a week's worth of her cooking and some clothing she's bought me from her favorite stores (which of course, is not my style at all and we both know she's secretly hoping none of it fits and she gets to keep them for herself). From exits 11-14 on the NJ Turnpike my father and I debate who is really responsible for the horrific aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. The conversation drifts awkwardly into the subject of another terrorist attack on NY as we drive through the suffocatingly long Lincoln Tunnel. By the time we reach midtown, I feel like I'd never left. We drop my bags off at my apartment (well, technically it's my great aunt's place, which I've been subletting for the past three years and am staying in for the next two months while I'm in NY working on set), then walk to Patsy's Pizza across the street. Two food truths about LA which I learned from my friend and former Columbia classmate Eric: Pizza and Bagels on the West Coast are just not as good. Something to do with the water quality affecting the dough? Whatever it is, it's true. Pizza and Bagels: just not as good. They should make T Shirts there that say this to warn the tourists. I had somehow managed to avoid eating both for nearly the entire three months I was in LA, except for the time I got suckered into going to a California Pizza Kitchen at the mall, and you know, when in Orange County....
I didn't expect to become so used to the LA lifestyle in just three months, but I have to admit, I felt like a total stranger in my old neighborhood. The streets seemed crowded with people for 10pm on a Saturday night, and there was so much trash everywhere, so much noise, so much frenetic energy. Even while standing in my bathroom brushing my teeth later that night, I could hear the traffic driving by 9 stories below. And my neighbor coughing through the wall. The neighbor I've never seen though I lived in this apartment for two and a half years before moving to LA in May, whom I know watches Law and Order almost every night and one time blasted Free Bird at 2am in the morning. Yes, I think as I wearily drift off to the sound of cars honking, I'm back, for two months, to assist my producer boss on set of our first feature film together. This is New York, my home, my love, my thorn and, as the song goes, this bird you cannot change.
posted by Loveglobe @ 11:48 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home