New Year, New Me, New York?

I’m back to blogging after a four-year hiatus. I had to Google 2021 minus 2017 to work out exactly how many years it’s been. Actually, that’s still how I work out my age. I’m 31 by the way. I first started writing because I loved how direct and unflinching I could be. I’ve never had a problem with wearing my heart on my sleeve and sending the most personal tidbits out into the ether. So, here we go again. Prepare yourself for excessive navel-gazing and no doubt some oversharing. My blog style is like Carrie Bradshaw had a glass—let’s be honest, a bottle—of wine then wrote about something she actually cares about. Also, a forewarning, it’s not going to be tight in terms of editing, because, well, this is my outlet and who the fuck cares about grammar?

Right now, I’m on my last 250 ml of Beaujolais before I have to crack another bottle. I was worried about what Ollie would think, but he’s happy to see me writing for fun... so, I guess that gives me free rein in terms of both wine and words. For the past two months, I’ve only seen Ollie, Ollie’s brother (Tom) and sister-in-law (Erica). For an innately social person, it’s been nothing short of hell. Not that I don’t love my three companions—if I had to pick a trio, it would’ve been them and my sister Bin—but it’s crazy to only have had physical interaction with that many humans. Even stranger, I haven’t left my house or Brooklyn for nearly a year. Add to that, this is my second year of marriage. There’s a baptism by fire and then there’s Covid. It’s like some God, or whoever, was like, “Hey, you love him? Prove it.” It’s been so trying and yet so rewarding. I’m reminded of a couple of sentences that the great Joan Didion wrote—yes, I watched the documentary—which were always a benchmark for me and are now my living reality. (Okay, Ollie is not a writer but he’s at his computer a lot so whatever.)

“Because we were both writers and both worked at home our days were filled with the sound of each other’s voices. I did not always think he was right nor did he always think I was right but we were each the person the other trusted. There was no separation between our investments or interests in any given situation.”

That last part I adore. I don’t want to be trite, but when you find the one, you develop a shorthand. You can communicate by simply moving a pillow (in Ollie’s case, “please stop hugging me, I’m too hot”) or the aggressive stacking of a dishwasher (me saying, “I’m not cleaning up your Hot Pocket wrappers again”). What’s more, you’re always on the same page. Nowadays, if he’s tired, I usually am, even if I haven’t clocked it yet. We don’t like the same Chinese takeout and both prefer to rewatch the Terminator rather than sit through another shitty new sci-fi. Anyway, this wasn’t meant to be about Ollie. But there are times, for instance, when I finish an hour-long interview with a scientist which I think I’ve botched, that he looks me square in the face and says “you’re so smart” and that’s all I need.

What I really want to get to is writing about this city that I’m in. In a lot of ways, I feel that I was robbed of getting to know New York. I got one year, but it was that jittery first year. I still didn’t know the difference between getting on a B or Q subway. Is that what they're called? I did manage to write some words for which I’m grateful and I’ll share them below. I’m not going to lie, it was really difficult to write again. I’ve been scared as to what would come out. I’ve heard interviews about the level of PTSD we’re all going to feel going back to “normal life” and I totally believe that’s real. Also, I know this is going to be polarising, it’s really difficult to hear how hard it’s been in Australia when I see everyone hanging out and not wearing masks. I know it’s not a dick measuring contest of which country has Covid worse and it’s been so hard for everyone. But, it’s pretty bad here. We still have the highest rates and the healthcare here is despicable. I’ve been wearing a mask since last March and haven’t left our neighbourhood. I haven’t gone to the supermarket or hung out with a group of friends. Here, you get a test before you even see people. I long for the days where I can do a deep inhale and suck in actual fresh air. I wish I could feel the sun or wind bite my face. I digress, this is meant to be about New York. Boy, I’ve come to love this city.

We arrived in Manhattan at the tail end of a bitter winter. We’d left behind sticky summer nights and perfectly ripe mangoes for numb fingers and fur coats. At first, I was worried. People told me to be wary of a thing called SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder), it was a form of depression that grew from a lack of sunshine and I was expecting to be instantly cold and miserable. But as I got in sync with the city, the steady beat of the subway and the pulsating crowds on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street, I realized NewYork was a city that suited the grey. The canary yellow cabs, the jet-black fire escapes, the shoddy neon lights in the bodegas, it all stood out against Manhattan’s monochrome palette. Everything just seemed more vibrant against that dreary grey.

The people gave the street colour, too. It was the one place in the world where nothing was off-limits. You could wear what you want, eat what you want, date who you want, say what you want and no one would care. I felt this liberating, zero-fucks attitude almost instantaneously and it was the polar opposite of Sydney. Back home everyone knows your business, people say hello on the street, you bump into old flames from high school and it’s difficult to go against the grain, to truly break free. But nothing phases New Yorkers. I remember riding on the subway for the fifth or sixth time, we were crammed in shoulder-to-shoulder like sardines in the tiniest of cans. The man next to me was flossing his teeth, while a woman who was pressed up against me made her way through an entire bento box. No one batted an eyelid. I got off and followed the rest of the sheep to my office which was opposite one of the most iconic landmarks in the city, the New York public library. I felt the same way I had all those years ago walking through the paddocks of my family farm, both a part of something big and vastly insignificant at the same time.

In the leadup to the trip, I’d spoken with ex-New Yorkers and seasoned travellers trying to work out what to expect. I remember a coworker who’d lived in Manhattan for 10 years likened it to a treadmill, you had to jump on quick and once you were on you had to give it everything you could muster. It wouldn’t slow down for you, or encourage you keep pace. It was all on you. And the first few months felt exactly like this. I put one foot in front of the other as quick as I could, sorting visas and job interviews. I had little time to focus on my family and friends in Australia. I was doing my best to keep my head above the water and become a part of this unforgiving yet incredible city.