This is not a love letter

 

 

“Holidays in general breed unrealistic expectations. The minute you start wondering, ‘is it going to be wonderful enough?,’ it never will be.”

~ Pepper Schwartz

Dear New York,

I’ve had a crush on you for a while. I might even venture to say that for almost two decades, I dreamed, wondered, lusted and pined over you.

When we finally agreed to meet, I was nervous. You were out of my league, like that guy you only ogled at from a distance, not expecting to get a second glance, much less a first date from.

The day came, and there I was and there you were, drenched in an early Friday morning downpour, caught in rush hour traffic on the freeway searching for a quick exit to Queen’s. Sitting in the cab, I was struck with gut sinking disappointment. I thought I’d surely recognize you, but like a passport photo, reality didn’t exactly match the portrait.

I shouldn’t blame it on the weather, but I did. Dozy from the red eye, I reasoned my first impressions had been clouded by fatigue. I took a short snooze before embarking on my Manhattan date. Standing on Madison, perched on the steps of the St. Vincent Cathedral, I looked across the street to see the Rockefellar centre. I willed myself for that tingle of ‘pinch me I am here’ sensation. It never came. The skyscrapers simply stared back mockingly, while Atlas remained unable to shrug the weight of the world off his shoulders.

Great expectations are born from unrealistic and fantastical whimsies. Somehow, when I stopped searching for the magic, it shyly unfolded. Free from seeking the New York of my dreams, I was finally able to enjoy the city as it was.

Before me was the Guggenheim, and down the street were horse carriages in waiting beneath blushing cherry blossoms in Central Park. I stumbled upon a Motown quartet serenading the steps of the MET. Past the Manhattan Bridge archway on route to Canal Street was where I made a stop at Sweet Sugar Sunshine for cupcakes. I sneaked a peek past the old tenements of the Lower East Side, and weaved my way between Nolita boutiques to find Cafe Habana, where I was served the sweetest corn on a stick north east of Mexico.

I arrived with the idea that I would depart with a love letter addressed to you in hand. While I won’t forget you as my first crush, I leave satisfied with knowing more about you New York than what can be conjured up in a passing reverie.