And I Let the Moment Pass

evidences of the yet to be lived

In the depth of my September slump, I bought a plane ticket to New York for this past weekend.

After early morning flights, Lucy and I rode the F train to the East Side and heaved our carry-on bags up the stairs onto 2nd ave.  Our luggage caught on the cracks and dips of the sidewalk. But still, we walked excitedly through the city we had been dreaming of the past month.

It felt strangely normal, walking by the brownstones and graffitied walls. No one yelled at us for being too slow, there were no sirens, or honking horns. I’m not sure what I expected. I just knew it would be different this time around.

And it was. 

It was almost like a first date, encountering a city that could one day be mine, seeing how the two of us would fit.

Lucy and I spent our days walking and seeing as much as we could, clocking in a sturdy 15 miles a day. We went to the MoMA and saw A Starry Night. We went to the MET and saw Monet’s lily pads. We ate sandwiches in Central Park and got ice cream from a truck outside the Plaza. We drank coffee and matcha, trying to keep our eyes open and our hearts beating.

The first night we were there it was Halloween. We dressed up as mimes and ate Thai. The lady sat us right by the window and we pretended to be trapped in a box to the people walking by. We laughed until tears blurred our vision, basking in the freedom that no one really cared what we did. We shared a meal and smiled for a picture the waiter took.

It was nice, to wear a beret to a Thai restaurant, and be celebrated for it. 

Our favorite place was Washington Square Park. We started and ended our trip there. It felt ceremonial, to sit on the fountain and watch the people walk by. On the first day it was all new. We heard drums playing and watched as people dressed in costumes of all varieties walk casually by. There were people selling their art and playing the saxophone and smoking blunts.

On the last day, we sat in the same spot, but felt like different people. We heard the drums and knew who was playing them. We saw people dance and paint and walk hand in hand. We had found a sort of bearings in the park that previous visits give you. Knowing where the people smoking would be and where the saxophonist would set up. But what couldn’t be calculated was who might walk by. We were a part of many that go to the park, simply to people watch.

I guess I hadn’t realized how much I enjoy staring until this weekend. Meeting the eyes of strangers for just a moment on the subway or across the bar. Sharing our humanity briefly, acknowledging the others existence. To see and be seen.

Sometimes that got me into trouble. Old men with fake teeth, or jewels that cost as much as my salary around their neck, would come up and introduce themselves, taking the eye contact as an invitation. My night at Bemelman’s was fraught with characters of that sort. But for some reason, I never felt unsafe. Perhaps it was because of the new friends Lucy and I had made, or maybe it was my idyllic picture of the city to be a safe haven where no wrong could be done to me, or maybe I gained a confidence in rejecting unwanted suitors that I had never had before

Besides the lurking men twice my age, Bemelman’s was a dream. The walls were covered in hand drawn illustrations of characters from the famed children’s book, Madeline.

It felt funny drinking a cocktail in a room drenched in whimsical childhood memory. A juxtaposition of sorts.

The lighting was soft and the drinks were strong. A jazz trio sat in the middle of the room. Eventually when they went on, Lucy and I were knee-deep in conversation with a couple from Brooklyn. They were telling us how they ended up in the city and fell in love at a concert.

The guitar and piano and bass floated through the air, harmonizing with the drunk chatter around us. The rest of the night felt as if it had come straight from a film. We somehow got a table right in front of the piano and spent the last hours of the day watching the trio play and pinching ourselves just to make sure it wasn’t a dream.

That might be a common theme of the trip. The surreality of it all.

The diner at 3am with a new friend that felt so familiar. Talking for hours in a booth as the night pressed on. All sharing a crepe and drinking decaf, wishing time would stop for the sake of the moment lasting forever. Laughing over a dinner we didn’t like. Strolling through a crowded book store. Dressing up all fancy to listen to our new friend play a song about Georgia. Journeying across the Brooklyn Bridge when we should have just taken a nap. Walking arm and arm through the park under the streetlights.

It felt good to spend the entirety of our trip doing so much. Each day would end with sore feet and full hearts. We would doze off eager to see what the next day would hold.

I can’t help but wish I could relive the weekend over and over.

Lucy and I use our conversations to reminisce over the memories we don’t want to forget, holding on to it all as long as we can.

I am back in Mississippi now, where the days are slow.

The familiarity of the town I’ve lived in for five years doesn’t feel as terrible anymore. I guess when you are in a city so much bigger than you ever could be, it’s nice to be back in a place that fits just right.

Looking back, I wish I wrote more. I wish the moments I’m recalling were written in time.

I know there’s so much I’m forgetting.

Sure, I can write about the moments now, try to dig out the details from each memory. But they are tainted by the passage of time. Lost somewhere in the cold air outside the hotel and the sirens that sang us to sleep.

Even though I may not remember it all, that does not take away from the actuality of each moment. I felt it and lived it and loved it while it was still mine. But eventually, I let the moment pass, knowing its finitude was what made it so beautiful, accepting that the passed by beauty is evidence of the yet to be lived.