The fries in NYC are good

The fries in NYC are good, excellent, actually, and I’ll be sure to visit again and plan a full fry excursion. But does the fry excellence compel me to move? While I’m much fatigued by the winter season, many of my friends live there, and it is a world class city. Additionally, I’ve realized that the criteria for my dream city may be too strict:

• Plentiful tech jobs
• Always sunny, 75-85 degrees, minimal rain
• Major metropolitan hub with a diverse community and good food
• Thriving music scene with variety of concerts from both well-known and indie artists each week
• An abundance of creatives interested in collaborating and making art
• Affordable
• Extensive public transit and/or easily traversable roadways with reasonable levels of traffic

What a ridiculous list! But truly, in my purest heart of hearts, I had this idea resting in the back of my mind that I’d make my move to this mythical mecca, once I got really fed up with everything, I’d wake up and say I need a change and I’d arrive here, to my nirvana, and live happily ever after. But no – I have jolted awake and become aware that this … is not real. So then, as the “call of the void” grows louder… what to do? Where to go? Yes, sure, call it a mid-year, quarter-life crisis!

Anyway, my first stop before New York was home. Mainly, I was visiting for my little cousin’s high school graduation party. Somehow, the tiny baby I held years ago is going to college. Can you believe it? She has grown into a gorgeous young woman. I know she will be quite successful in college.

The party itself was at my uncle’s house. In the kitchen there’s a picture hanging of a smiling Obama after his election (the year my cousin was born. Feel old yet?), and another photo of my uncle and aunt in a cab, newlyweds. I hope to recreate that photo with Erika’s Husband. It’s timeless, I’d say. My uncle is not smiling (Typical), my aunt is hitting a smize. It’s been a while since I’ve been to a real Nigerian party, and I piled my plate high with an array of food: cupcakes, puff puff, jollof and fried rice, meat pie, moi moi, and more.

After spending time at home, I went to NYC. I guess I’ve never been to LaGuardia before, because I was surprised at the number of hustlers (scammers, really) that were hanging around the arrival doors. “Uber? Uber? Is this your Uber?” they chanted. I was too tired to even engage. My actual Uber driver was a bald man who didn’t even help me with my bag. No tip for you!

It was deep into the night when I arrived at Tom’s apartment, and the streets of Brooklyn were quiet besides the odd buzzing of the streetlights. I crossed a street, then crossed another street, passed by a coffee shop, turned around, crossed the street again, and finally, under the gray haze of the moon, dragging my carry on bag which jumped with every crease in the sidewalk, hauling my backpack full of skincare, dragging my feet, slapping my face to stay awake after the long flight with it’s stiff seats, wondering “What is this place? Where is this place?”, I found the apartment door tucked in a corner. I typed the code Tom sent me – Incorrect. I typed it again – incorrect. It was 2am. I wondered if I’d be outside forever, sleep on the streets of Brooklyn, cuddle with the rats, become one with the flattened gum on the sidewalk. But! I checked my phone again and saw I was using the wrong code. I tried again. Click!

I hauled my bag up 2 flights of stairs and made my way inside the apartment; it was pitch black. There were 3 doors and a staircase to… somewhere. I was to stay in Jacob’s room – now which one was his … ? If I opened the wrong door: someone might be there, in bed, at the desk, or standing right in the doorway, staring at me, a phantom, what’s wrong with you, they would ask, you’ve made a mistake, this is the wrong door, turn away, go, go, and I, I would run, and then, I’d be out on the streets of Brooklyn again, lost, and alone, poor me!

So, I called my sister to complain and commiserate. She offered to get me a hotel, and I considered, until two women walked in, and I was sitting on the couch in the dark, so they jumped in fright. Which room is Jacob’s? I asked, and they pointed. Thanks, I said, and disappeared inside. Having figured out the mystery, I went straight to bed.

I’d left the curtains open and was woken up by a flood of sunlight. Jacob’s bed must be bigger than mine, because I was sprawled out like a starfish atop the crumpled white sheets. It was like, 7am? Time zone differences meant I didn’t have to work until 11am. I fell asleep again and when I woke up, it was 9.

I went out to get necessary supplies from Walgreens. The necessary supplies being Bloom energy drinks. Each time I visit New York, I can’t help but compare it to where I currently live. The contrasts between New York and Phoenix: New York was very compact. Consistent sidewalks. A little dirty. Much more fashionable and diverse crowd. Squirrels. But, due to the heat wave, it was just as hot, and quite a bit more humid.

Two blooms from Walgreens and I was set for the day. Back in Jacob’s room, I sat in the chair and spun. Spinning and spinning, I contemplated: should I be a real New Yorker, take the subway to the financial distract, standing with my feet apart just enough that I wouldn’t stumble when the train car occasionally swayed, pull out a book, but not actually read it, just look at it with an expression of deep concentration, as if to portray: “I am smart. I am an intellectual and I am better than you all, because I am reading on the train instead of scrolling TikTok. I think deeply about pertinent topics, so deeply that I have ascended from the simple thoughts of the common man, to something bigger, another plane of existence, something closer to God than any human could ever know, and I’m not trying to brag, I am I humble person, just know that I know that I am better.”

Nah. The route had a transfer which would be too complicated for my brain. I decided to take an Uber.

It was my first time at the Tower, which was on Vesey street in the financial district. On the bottom floor was a mall, where regular folk were watching the world cup game, shopping, chatting, eating, and generally enjoying the summer, while on the upper floors, office workers strutted to-and-fro, making their decks or having their millionth meeting or taking huge shits or whatever those boys in their suits and their ugly shoes do.

I walked through the halls of my company’s office. The windows were huge boxes full of light, with a view of the entire city. One thing about NYC: they love the view; they love to bask in the light. I could see the Statue of Liberty and the sea and the landmarks of the city.

For lunch, I met up with an old colleague from my team. He seemed happy with his new role and enjoyed the fast-paced ness of the city. Although he’s commuting from Connecticut, which sounded awfully stressful. Could I see myself in this city. Could I make that jump. A life of walking and subway hopping. Take the L to the G to the C or whatever they say.

For dinner, Tom’s plan was Senegalese food with some fellow WashU alum. Again, I debated: Uber or subway, the Uber was only $15… but I was already out $40 from getting to the Tower, so I decided against it. I just had to walk to the subway station, it’s what, 15 minutes? I left the office around 6 still wearing my sweater, the sweater I definitely didn’t need but couldn’t bring myself to take off. I walked past construction zones sectioned off with gates. I jumped over any part of the sidewalk covered with a manhole or grating, thinking of the woman in the Mercedes Benz who opened her car door and walked straight into the void, whose story I was sure would become an urban legend on the streets of this city, I walked and walked, past a Popeye, turned the corner, there’s a CVS, and another, I walked again, Google maps says I’m here, but which entrance… this is where I get confused. Why are there so many points of entry to the Goddamn subway. I entered a building with signs for multiple subway lines, up the stairs, down the stairs, then up the stairs again, then down, ok, I found the right line. On the train, stuffed like sardines for 30 minutes. Off the train, and back to walking, I do like walking, really. I like to see the people and their nice outfits, guess what their jobs might be. Who were the nepo babies? Who were the finance bros?

The restaurant, Cafe Rue Dix, was small, but bustling, with the world cup match playing on TV. The WashU alum were more Tom’s friends than mine, although (I think?) I talked to one of them briefly the last time I was in NYC, at a party Tom threw. As for the meal itself, there are two important details to note: (1) Senegalese jollof, while great, is certainly not superior to Nigerian jollof (2) I would not expect a Senegalese restaurant to serve fries, let alone excellent fries, but they had done both: mid-size, crispy, well salted, and an interesting pair with the traditional stew/sauces that were provided. Amazing!

July 3rd, federal holiday, I had the day off. Today’s outfit: orange patterned skirt, a peach tank top that with the text Fetish in sparkly bold letters, and, just for fun, black and gray striped gloves. The skirt is sort of boho, and I’m starting to feel like I’m shifting to an earthy black girl aesthetic rather than barely goth thing BUT: surely, I can occupy multiple aesthetics, I am multifaceted enough to exist in multiple spaces. And change does not phase me, and my identity is constantly shifting, and I’m tied down to one thing, and I can be all the things. Surely.

I spent the morning exploring coffee shops near Tom’s apartment; one had plenty of table space, and great blueberry muffins, but was ill suited for the heat wave; their doors were open and they had a giant, loud fan running in the corner, but it was still hot. At the next coffee shop I went to, I got a fizzy drink that tasted like ginger, and sat down to read, but I couldn’t focus for very long, so I left after about half an hour.

Back at the apartment Tom was watching Love Island with his roommate, and I watched too, intrigued by the pretty faces. What exactly is the show about? I can’t say I know, but “movie night” was intense. What would you do if your transgressions were shown to an audience? I’d like to think nobody would hate me, but…

After an hour or so of being hypnotized by the hypocrisies of Love Island, we left to get lunch at Coppelia, a Cuban Restaurant in Chelsea. It was very good! I ordered the spicy fries, and they were skinny like McDonald’s fries, covered in a spicy sauce that made them just damp enough that a little bit of their crisp was lost, but in a pleasant way, reminiscent of the cheese covered Cheetos or loaded nachos. 9/10! Lexi and Annie joined us at lunch. Somewhat of a crossover. I proposed my merry-go-round question which sparked a long discussion. I will write more about said problem in another post.

Afterwards Annie and I walked on The High Line, and it was good to catch up. Annie has blue hair, her drink of choice is cocktails, and she was surprised by how difficult a PhD can get. She has a camera (Canon Rebel), and takes pictures of the city and the people with a focused eye. You should follow her, by the way: @lens.a.hand. In other words: she is thriving, winning. We went to the Art Museum, wandered, and then joined a poster making session for the world cup, where they gave each of us a blank poster and markers and told us to create art showcasing themes of the world cup: unity, competition, FIFA corruption, that sort of thing. Instead, I drew an abundance of shapes, circles, squares, lines, and I kept filling up the page, as much white space as I could for an hour. It was the most relaxed I’ve been since I was a child, the free flowing of nonsense abstractions without the judgements of some authority figure, or myself, put me in a state of unrepentant bliss. The museum worker said that any posters leftover would be collaged together and hung in the museum, so I left mine with them, and hopefully they do include mine in the collage, so I can tell people I have a piece in the Whitney.

Tom had headed out with his friend from high school while me and Annie were drawing, and when we finished there a massive torrential downpour and strong winds suddenly moved in, contrasting with the sunny skies of the day. It thudded the windows and whipped the trees, certainly not weather women could stroll in. So, we went to the cafe downstairs where a large crowd was gathering around, arching their necks to watch the Cape Verde vs Argentina world cup game projected onto the wall. I don’t watch much soccer, but I was surprised to see that Cape Verde was tied with Argentina. I could feel their fever, and when the striker hit an insane goal right in the corner of the net, enthralling the crowd, I realized there was something they had that the none of us would ever truly understand, the desire to win, above all struggles and trials, I could feel how badly they wanted to win and thus I so badly wanted them to win. Alas, Argentina caught up, scoring 2 goals and ending their dreams as the rain cleared up outside. Their fever was infectious, and I held that energy with me as we left the museum, heading to a rooftop bar. But I also thought about how they had still lost, even with the perfect underdog story. Was I pursuing my goals with enough fever, and even then, was it enough?

Rory’s rooftop bar itself, not notable. I mean, there was minigolf on another floor, a group of millennials celebrating a birthday with sparklers. But that’s nothing crazy. What was crazy was the fries. It was beautiful: served on a silver plate with 5 different sauces, in which my favorites were the spicy ketchup and buffalo style sauce, but I also quite liked the mayo, which is to say I loved all the sauces, and the fries, while not exceptionally unique, were the perfect carrier for the sauces. What a joy!

We ended the night at a beach-themed bar; there was sand all over the floors and blow-up palm trees in the corners. We sat outside at a wooden table; I got a diet Pepsi, and Tristan, who also happened to be visiting New York, joined, resulting in another crossover between friends in different categories of my life. Tristan mentioned his desire to move to New York, and again I asked myself: What did I want? Could I live in New York? In the corner of my eye, I saw a rat scurry from one table to another. Am I down with the rats? I had left my apartment a mess, bed unmade, hair products scattered on the counter. Maybe I’d fit right in.

I can’t picture myself chasing subways, but I also don’t see myself staying in Phoenix forever. But I long for the desert when I am away. (But I need to move up in the world, climb the corporate ladder. Obtain more. Do more.) Is it the desert I long for or the people in it? I am so full of questions I can barely breathe. I tried to hash it out on the plane, but it was 5am, and I fell asleep instead.