The Welcome Committee
No one slides easily into New York City. You aren’t just living somewhere, and then all of a sudden you’re living in New York, with no emotional earthquake in between. New York City is the cool kid in the classroom. The one who can make you feel so high when it wants to. And the one who could sometimes be a little kinder. My first 24 hours made it clear that I was going to need to earn my way into the city’s good graces.
It was the hottest day of the year. And I was moving into a Queens apartment that perched on top of five flights of stairs. Meaning, one had to be in top athletic condition to do even the laziest of tasks, like napping on the couch. My first five-flight climb to the apartment found my roommates doing just that. Taking incredibly un-lazy naps on the couches they had just carried all the way up from the street.
Did I mention it was the hottest day of the year?
They were in no physical or mental condition to leave said couches, so I was alone, carrying up all of the belongings I had been so sure I would absolutely need in New York. But after trip number four, I was pretty sure I could survive with nothing but one dress and three pairs of underwear. Things I definitely did not need included a ceramic piggy bank that doesn’t even hold money, a printer I’d had for two years and never used, more than one plate.. really, five plates? Excessive. I don’t need to have people over. Even if I wanted to, no one’s going to hike these godforsaken stairs to get there. No matter how cool my piggy bank is.
Another problem was that I had driven, which I thought meant there was no need for suitcases. Because the beauty of moving in a car is that you can throw each item individually into the trunk, shut the door, and move, right? Ahhhh… ye of little foresight. Hey Kat, how’s that gonna feel when you’re taking 87 trips up those stairs, dropping a trail of valuables the whole way? (That’s not something I asked myself when I made the conscious decision to throw things in a car and call it packing). So 87 trips later I joined my roommates on the couches, ordered three pizzas, begged the delivery guy to bring them all the way up to the fifth floor, and vowed never to leave the apartment again.
Until the next morning, when I had to break that vow to move my car for street cleaning. For those of you who live in normal cities where the streets are cleaned once or twice a month, let me explain that in Queens, the streets are cleaned four times a week. That’s why they practically glow...
So I creaked my legs down the stairs and out to my car, only to find a bright orange parking ticket poking out from under the windshield wiper. What?? But it wasn’t street cleaning yet! I had come all the way down here just to avoid getting one of these! I grabbed the ticket and discovered that my violation had nothing to do with street cleaning. It was for parking in a “No Standing” zone. I looked up and saw a sign directly above me that clearly said “No Standing.” I had seen it yesterday too, when I had carefully read every sign on the street and chosen this spot specifically because I didn’t think I would be breaking any rules. I had no plans to stand there. I was only going to park there. But it turns out that “No Standing” is not the same as “No Loitering.” Standing, apparently, also refers to what a car does when it is turned off and not moving. I had always heard this described as parking, but the first lesson New York taught me is that cars also stand. And it only took me $150 to learn it. For New York, that’s a bargain.
Like I said, no one slides easily into New York. But does anyone slide easily into anywhere?
I certainly don’t. Every major life transition I make seems to be marked with some catastrophic event or another. There is always some rule I’m not aware of, or some language I don’t really speak yet… something that reminds me just how little I really know. And, funnily enough, it always comes at a time when I’ve been living in whatever place I’d just left long enough to be feeling like I know everything. But I don’t. There are a lot of things I don't know, including everything about this new place I’ve just landed. That's when the protective instincts of the universe kick in and say, “Hey, I’m gonna give you this pain-in-the-neck frustration to get in your way and remind you that you don’t have life all figured out, and you need to WATCH YOUR BACK until you learn a little more.”
I call these events The Welcome Committee (even though they usually feel more like getting zapped by an electric fence that's trying to keep me out). Because they are the moments that remind me I'm starting a new chapter; they get me to pay attention to where I am, to take a little extra care of myself, and to be excited about learning new things. They show me my life is changing. And who wants to miss that?
Love Love Love,
Kat
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