I slide into bed, exhausted from the day. Dodging crowds of people, trundling uneven pavements, and protecting myself from the cold chill all wore me out. Sleep isn’t going to happen easily tonight. It’s New York City, and the adventure I had today is nudging me into a slumber that the night is fighting off just as equally. I hear the hustle and chatter of people still walking the streets this late at night. I can almost make out the loud conversations over the club music. I hear the clinking of glasses and cutlery from the restaurants below the apartment.
The street lamp shines through the window, enough for me to make out the old brick building on the opposite side. The dirty chimneys take me back to my childhood home. The carefully constructed fire escape protrudes out like a sore thumb, and I wonder if the old window will even force itself open if an emergency occurred. My next thought is my ability to make it out through the small opening and down what looks like an unsafe safety feature. I’m almost thankful to be on the second floor.
The one-way street doesn’t forbid the occasional loud honking, which overbears the swoosh of the tires through puddles left over by the rain this evening. It was a cloudy drive here from the airport. I watched bare trees pass by with little acknowledgement of the distant skyscrapers. The deserted balconies lined the graffiti-grazed buildings; everything seemed weathered and worn. I want to say it’s from the passing of a harsh winter. Yet history tells me it’s not only weather. It’s pollution, industry, and the millions that call this their home; it’s how I remembered NY to be.
I toss over to block some of the noise, but a siren threatens my thought. I watch the red and blue lights make shadowed patterns on the ceiling. The sound of a small crowd runs past, laughing and screaming. There is no noise-cancelling anything here. NY has its own noise. The youth who want to experience the dream of independence, and those who have lived the American dream.
I doze in and out of sleep as if I’m waiting for the next page to turn. A dog barks, waking me fully again. He continues, and I can tell he’s a large animal; perhaps he is protecting his brave owner walking the streets this late. The sound of an argument catches my attention. It diffuses quickly, only to be followed a few minutes later by someone crying. I lay wondering what led to the sadness as they sobbed away. A small crowd talks, but the sound gets muffled by traffic.
During the day, traveling the same streets, I see people from all walks of life. I speak to taxi drivers, shopkeepers, wait staff, and even passersby who have made this melting pot their home. There’s a community around every corner. Ironic how we leave our childhood homes to explore the world, and then search for like-minded people wherever we end up. A sense of safety develops within a community. It makes life easier to adjust. I ate a simple meal, and it took me back to my childhood. Everyone is busy going about their day, but a simple gesture, a kind word, a pleasant smile, makes up for the chill in the air here.
The night seems too short because in no time, I hear the garbage truck making its short stops and collecting the refuse from bins that are being tossed one by one. As soon as it fades, I hear a similar truck, this time the bottles rattle profusely as if they want to escape the recycling pile. The noise torments me, and I have no idea how far it went before the truck finally faded.
The shutters from storefronts begin rattling, and I can hear the sweeping of a broom as a conversation between two foreigners takes place. I hear the sound of heels hurrying past, most probably a professional on her way towards an office housed in the elegant high-rise buildings that make the other half of NY seem like the headquarters of the corporate world every professional dreams of. I begin to hear delivery trucks and construction workers as they begin their day.
Just as the night sky had shadowed over me so quickly today, I began to witness the morning light seep through the clouds. The hissing sound of the radiator heating forces my heavy eyelids shut. It’s been a long 24 hours; I spent half of it watching and observing, and the other half listening and imagining what New York dreams are made of.
