simon says, turn the page
2019 // not quite a prayer and not yet a monologue:
I rang in the new year at one of my favorite theater-bar-restaurant spots in East Williamsburg, got confetti in my champagne glass and might have accidentally downed a piece anyway, then proceeded - bubbly-blushed - to get chicken tenders off the kids’ menu at Kellogg’s Diner as my first meal of the year. The second Tuesday evening of January I marched into my regular salon on West 4th, pulled out two sheets of “hairstyle specifics”, and got bangs for the first time in 5? 6? years. It’s britney, baby. *without the shaved head obviously, I text a friend, and get a string of exclamation marks in return. I catch my reflection in a car window and pause. No looking back now.
So much of February and March was spent prepping for the move across the Atlantic that I honestly don’t remember much else. The new: checking out the capitalist mecca that is Hudson Yards, finally going to Brooklyn Steel to catch Beirut live, finally going to Nom Wah (to the great shame of my ancestors, I’m sure). The old: wandering around Greenpoint, Brooklyn Bridge park, LES. Brunches at Concord Hill/ Clinton Street/ Wild Son/ Five Leaves, buying Pocky in bulk in Chinatown, picking our favorite murals up and down Stanton Street, saying goodbyes over wine at Spuyten Duyvil/ Hotel Delmano/ Woodhul, did one last tour around WSP to say goodbye to Kimmel, Goddard, 19W4, but not Bobst. When we finally got a Lilia reservation at 10pm i told the waitress that it was going to be my last nice meal in New York. I’m so jealous, she smiles, I’ve always wanted to live in London. I hope it’s amazing for you. I let the tines of my fork poke staccatos in the bomboloni and try to fight past the growing lump in my throat. I hope so too, I look up and say, quietly. Hoping that saying it aloud makes it true.
I sat in JFK watching the evening sun set. Delta called my boarding group, and, just like that, we were off.
London spring and summer was a blur of easing in, tasting rain on my face, learning to love blooming flowers against a sky that flushes in all shades of blue-grey, pushing myself out - and out - of my comfort zone. Lying outside in parks with a book, squinting in the heatwave, getting grass bits all over my denim shorts. So many wine-tinted evenings. Did you know orange wine is actually white wine? Did you know 7 is the maximum number of times you can fold something? Did you know that I could look at heartbreak in the eye and say, yes, jump? I love how we are most vulnerable half-asleep, at night. Some days my internal compass still orients me south of the Thames. Tell me again how we forwent slow heat and went straight for the fireworks. I am not usually this careless, and yet. Perhaps. We are inconsistent in hopes of being someone else’s exception.
In September I took myself to my first formula 1 race in Monza and, sitting there amongst the tifosi, bright red everywhere, hearing the engines roar as the drivers rev for lights off — that was everything 8 y/o me could have ever wanted. I promise I only got the tiniest bit emotional. Then wandering around Milan and Como, mesmerized with the way the Italian sun drapes over pale yellow walls, the way each window seems to be vined with so much greenery, the soft springiness of handmade gnocchi between my teeth. Waking up one crisp Sunday morning and saying, why not, to a spontaneous day trip out to Windsor/ Eton where we laid on the grass, barely touching, our breaths the smell of M&S strawberries, elderflower yogurt, and dark chocolate. Then, closing out the month in a dark hall, acid/ techno/ bass thumping in the back of my head, lasers and lights and bodies everywhere. My hand in the small groove of your spine, feeling the staccato ripples of your back, so so so close that I could almost unfold your shirt and trace the thin breath of sweat just above your waistband. All this music in us, and nowhere to go.
By the end of fall I got fully primed with a rudimentary understanding of rugby, what it means when there’s a knock-on, and most importantly — why you should never wear a green jacket over an all-black outfit (even if its a camo print). I said goodbye to too many people. Took myself to book readings and NYT talks — all places where I learnt that courage comes in so many different ways. I got invited on nights out, did karaoke, and found that The Bad Touch is almost as hard to sing as Don’t Stop Me Now. And then, at the beginning of winter — took the craziest 4-flight combination halfway across the world to New Zealand, a place I’ve never been. Ate burgers two nights in a row. Luged in the rain; at the end of 6 rounds, I no longer knew if I was shivering because of the wind chill or the wet. Caught a sunset like fire. Wore proper hiking boots for the first time. Rediscovered my allergy toward sports tape. Learnt to identify birdsong. Camped properly - also a first (**multiple days, through cramps… who’s a city girl now?!). Fell in love with the way tree roots gnarl across the forest floor, the crunch of tussock under my feet, the sound that glacier runoff makes across smooth rocks, the soft rush of tiny waterfalls after rain. Such a wild kind of beauty, that land, and so different from everything I’ve ever touched. On my last night in the South Island we unzipped the tent at 11pm, closed our eyes for five minutes and opened them to a sky, half-cloudy with fog, but the other half absolutely bursting with flecks of stars. Wow, I breathe, near tears. The Milford sky a dark swath of fabric, and the Milky Way glittering everywhere.
I finished the year on a balcony overlooking a tennis court, the warm night air a heady mix of cut grass and rain. I have not been home, this home particularly, in a very long time. I look at my childhood photo albums, staring at the girl with wispy bangs and one-and-a-half dimples grinning out from the pages, so hopeful of adulthood then. A quarter century feels like forever. I hope I did that kid proud.
Here’s to never losing heart. Here’s to my body and all the ways it brought me through the year, the decade, the quarter century. On to the next.
