New York, you make my heart feel full.

I fell in love with New York all over again this weekend. As more of my friends and loves grow up, grow fast, and grow out of this beautiful island, I find myself fervently defending the one place that has always been good to me, that still nurtures and teaches me, that still cherishes me, as if it's still the first three months of our relationship, not the first seven years.

This weekend was the first in almost two months that Vin and I could explore our city--without phones, impending deadlines, or any thoughts at all, actually. My mind was finally blank, and I wanted to go to Brooklyn.

I had not been to DUMBO in years. In college, Manu and I used to eat spoonfuls of Nutella on the rocks looking out over the East River, giggling about all of the nothingness. Now, Vin and I took the A to High Street, and I immediately felt transported to seven years ago. I directed him down towards the river, and walked by construction enclosed by artistic pictures with captions that made no sense. It was lovely.

This caption was for an unrelated picture. We decided to justify it.

While blank and blissful, we were also desperately hungry. We decided to turn left, to Gran Electria, so that I could finally cross it off my bucket list. We walked past the bar in the front and through the small dining area in the back, amid the quirky black and white wallpaper, and into a beautiful garden, outlined by a string of lights. Couples were sitting on the same sides of tables, hand in hand, and waiters of all genders were wearing incredibly short shorts. The brown paper menus explained the various local farms and vineyards from where the organic ingredients were hauled. I smiled. We were in Brooklyn.

I am not proud of taking pictures at lunch. But, I did.

The drinks were made with fresh, whole, colorful ingredients--entire jalapeños, cold cucumbers, bright red pepper--creating exciting, earthy flavors that turned our drinks into true bebidas.

We ordered the setas quesadillas with quesillo cheese and oyster mushrooms (another thing I've fallen for over the last year and a half), and I got the rajas tacos.

Everything was clean, and delicious.

After lunch, we headed back down towards the river. We walked by the long Grimaldi's line, snickering at the visor toting tourists who waited on this excessive queue, secretly wishing we had the courage to do the same. I then wanted to ride the merry go round by the river with the other kids, but the line was just as long as the one for pizza,  and we instead walked to the water and watched the boats and the dozens of wedding parties posing for East River photo shoots.

Vin wanted dessert. We ventured towards the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, where we met yet another line. "What is everyone doing on line?" Vin shrieked in desperation (he has a sweet tooth). Though the afternoon had been filled lots of lines and lots of waiting, I felt actually grateful for a prolonged quietude. It was our last summer weekend together, and I had become incredibly sad.

But Vin was thinking about cookies. "Let's Yelp this." And then he listed the various places we could walk to for dessert. We got one thick, creamy hot chocolate from Jacques Torres to share, and then walked through Almondine and One Girl Cookies to make sure that we didn't want (or couldn't stomach) anything else. We sat on a bench, staring at more wedding parties (specifically, at brides in bedazzled, hot pink wedding dresses) taking pictures on the cobbled streets in front of Galapagos, and noticed a dark green, fully functioning trolley, with tracks that literally led to nowhere. We didn't question it. We smiled. It was Brooklyn.

After dessert, we wanted appetizers. We saw a chalkboard sign for $1 oysters at the cafe next door, Atrium, and swiftly welcomed ourselves. We ordered more bebidas, potions comprising ingredients we had never before heard of (what the hell is velvet falernum?). We also ordered a side of roasted kale (Brooklyn delicacy) and potato bread that was so hot that it steamed (and burned tongues) when we sliced it open.

We walked back towards the East River Promenade, where Vin got excited by a poster advertising a pool. He had actually been wearing neon pink swim shorts all day, instead of pants, since our weekend plans initially involved the beach. He looked at his pink shorts and then to me, in anguish. "I could have totally gone swimming today. Let's go see this pool."

And so, we walked through the entire promenade, by the construction of the new apartment complex, the roller rink, kids racing on scooters, and the many bright wildflowers and posies and petunias that littered the edges of the walkway, flush against the horizon. Vin walked on towards the pool, and I sat down on the ledge, staring into the glowing sky.

Summer was coming to a close. We could not find the pool, and the sun was soon setting.

We had to get back to Manhattan. Of course, the freest way to do so was walking the Brooklyn Bridge, and so, like I first did when I was 18, we strolled across the bridge, bumping into tourists posing for selfies and cyclists trying to kill everyone. We left our day in Brooklyn behind us.

On the other side, we ventured to Beekman Beer Garden, through an outdoor movie in a brick alley, only to find the garden had closed, permanently. Nervous about ending the night, we decided to watch The Most Wanted Man, feeling as though a celebration of one of our greatest artists was the only other activity befitting of such an evening. We waited for the movie at the nearby Pierre Loti, where we tried their famous haydari with warm pita (and loved it). And then we went to the theater, where a satisfied Vin fell asleep with his mouth open, and I discovered old gummy bears in my purse (win-win!). The film was tragic.

And our summer officially ended.

In his latest memoir, Joseph Anton, Salman Rushdie explains that the questions of life he knows how to answer are only those of love: "Who do you love? What can you leave behind, and what do you need to hold on to? Where does your heart feel full?"

For me, the answer is, and always has been, and always will be, New York City.

Though, someone who crosses the Brooklyn Bridge with me, hand in hand, into the sunset, in utter silence, is a close second.

good bye, summer.

May Day

It's easy to take New York City for granted. For that matter, it's not only easy, but common, to take your home for granted, to forget that what you have in your hands at a single moment is ephemeral. 

I've never been on the IKEA water taxi. I've never eaten at the Central Park Boathouse Restaurant or Cafe, Vanessa's Dumplings, or Beauty & Essex. When I ventured to the top of the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty, I was sleepy, cranky, and still drank from juice boxes. I haven't yet explored the Cloisters, the Bodies Exhibit, or the Museum of Sex. I have never taken an improv class and I don't understand dim sum. I don't know the names of buildings in Manhattan, and still get confused about the geography of Brooklyn.

Still, I consider New York City my home. I have always been here, and assumed my life was of permanence, despite desperately yearning change. I thus always looked to tomorrow. There was always tomorrow to go to Alta, tomorrow to go to Basement Bhangra, tomorrow to go to trannie bingo at the Bowery Poetry Club.

But all of a sudden, there is no tomorrow. The wind is knocked out of me, I'm gasping for air, I'm leaving New York City. In thirty days, I bid farewell to family, friends, a sense of familiarity. I'm departing from my youth, from the place in which I both found and lost myself, from the moments I can not recapture once I set foot over the threshold.

I am compelled by an overwhelming sense of sadness, of pain, to wake up. I want to see and smell and touch and fall in love with and hate every inch of the city, till I want to have nightmares about "Post No Bills" and Dan Smith (from whom I have not learned the guitar, something else to add to my list).

Grimaldi's, exalted as the best pizzeria in New York City, is on the aforementioned list of things I postponed for tomorrow, a day which never came to pass, until today. To commemorate the beginning of the end, I decided to finally catch up with the scores of tourists who appreciate the transience of the city more than I do. I went to Grimaldi's.

Now, I should preface this monumental event. After several fears that the Grimaldi's in DUMBO would shut down, the owner opened a new branch in Kips Bay. I thus did not try Grimaldi's from the original coal fired oven, but it's newer counterpart. Whatever, baby steps.

The block surrounding Grimaldi's is infused with the welcome, delicious fragrance of slightly salty mozzarella cheese melting on hot, tangy tomato sauce. We walked into the restaurant, which, as my companion described, only conducted a "soft opening," and so its phone number was only listed on Post-its on the counter, its patrons were but a few, scattered hungry souls, and its entrance sign was hastily plastered on top of the sign from the previous store it replaced.

The honesty of the [new branch of the] infamous pizza spot was refreshing. Like the authentic inhabitants of this island, the new Grimaldi's did not pretend to be what it was not, nor did it seduce us with a saccharine facade, a fake smile. Rather, we were drawn by the tantalizing smells, without hesitation ordered our pizza, and without so much as a nod acknowledging the relationship between pizza maker and pizza taker, we took the food out, where we could enjoy a king's feast in a Manhattan dorm room.

Grimaldi's, NYC

As is the norm for New York City pizza, the crust was the best part of the slice. Like my father, I prefer most things crisp--crisp personalities, crisp clothing, crisp pizza crusts. In this case, the crust was a bit soft, but it was still soulful, still strong, without ambiguity or pretense. Like those locals who devour it, the pizza feigned nothing, exposing its own flaws and harsh truths to the vagaries of a cold, aloof universe, at the risk of pain, of loneliness, of anguish. The pizza might not have been the best I ever had (Lombardi's might win this one), but it was more than good enough. It was satisfaction. It was home.

End of Day 1