In and Of the City of New York.

You take the train into Penn Station, arriving on an overcast afternoon.  You climb your way up from the bowels of the train platform, moving along at a steady clip as you climb higher and higher, making your way to street level, suitcase and carry-all purse in hand.

You exit the station the same way you've always exited the station, thinking, as you always do how much uglier Penn Station is versus the beauty and grandeur of Grand Central.  When you reach the top of the stairs and step out onto 7th Avenue, you notice the cab stand immediately to your left.  "Nah," you think to yourself.  "I can hop on the subway."  But then, when you get to the nearest subway station your mind suddenly draws a blank.  "Shit.  Does the 1 go downtown?  Or is it easier to take the N or the R to Union and walk from there?"  You stand for a minute, right above the entry to the subway, trying to decide...trying to remember.  You're turned and twisted around and for the very first time in your adult life somewhat disoriented about where you are in Manhattan.  You walk back to the cab stand, get in line with the other travelers. 

When you check into your quaint boutique hotel down on West 13th Street, you notice one of the bell hops folding up maps of the city.  "Can I have one of those?" you ask, still surprised at the disorientation that greeted you a few moments ago at the train station.  Up in your room - a large room by New York standards - you hang up your clothes and settle in, spreading the map on the desk in front of you.  Studying it for a moment, you can feel your brain starting to click, getting orientated.  Ah, yes.  The 1 does run downtown, just as you'd *almost* been sure that it did.  And the 2 and the 3, they'll give you the express options.  That's right.  It is coming back to you, this maze, this amazingly complicated and wonderful web that is Manhattan.

The next morning, with meetings scheduled up at Columbia, you walk over to the nearest subway station, purchasing your MetroCard.  "Please dip your credit card," the machine tells you as you select your pass and you smile to yourself.  You'd forgotten that was the wording on these machines, forgotten how much that simple request to "dip your card" always made you smile.  Down the stairs you go, headed - yes for the 1 and yes for Uptown.  When you go to take a seat on the wooden benches on the subway platform you look down and see that someone has scribbled "Fuck You" in black sharpie on one of the arm rests.  In spite of the vulgarity, you smile to yourself, thinking about J.D. Salinger's ever-relevant line from The Catcher in the Rye: "If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the 'Fuck You' signs in the world.  It's impossible."

It's after the morning rush hour, so when the train arrives, it's easy to grab a seat.  You don't pick up your book, you don't plug your head phones in.  Instead, you're content to just sit there, watching a slice of New York life go by.  You think about the date, November 12th.  You do the math.  Eight years ago you'd been living in New York for approximately six days.  Or maybe it was five.  It dawns on you that this is the very first year of your New York move-versary that you let slip by without consciously counting the years, marking your planner.

Later that night, on route to the theater, you allow yourself enough time to hop off the subway a few stops earlier than where you truly need to be, eager to walk past your old place of employment.  It is, of course, standing exactly where you left it, looking exactly as it did the last day you set foot inside those glass doors.  You stand for a moment, watching various people come and go at the end of the work day.  You keep an eye out for your old boss even though you know she no longer ever works there, wonder, in fact, if anyone you used to know still does work, wonder if you'd recognize them if they did.  As you stand there, you can almost see your former self striding up to those doors, that building.  You can picture the coat you owned that year, you can remember exactly what dresses and fashions were your favorite then.  In a weird way you almost wish you could see your former self, walk past her quickly with just a thumbs up and a 'good for you' thrown her way before she heads inside... 

Lingering just long enough, you make your way through the throngs of tourists in Time Square, working your way up to West 47th and the Barrymore Theater.  The energy is palpable - just like it always is here in this grand old town.  You realize you're walking even faster than you normally do, having fallen right back into step with the New York clip, the pace.  Because the side streets of New York are always the best streets, you weave your way around Midtown, settling on a spot close to the theater to pop into for a quick pre-show bite.  As you sit at the bar, drinking your $14 glass of wine and eating your $16 beet salad, you offer up a quick little prayer of thanks; remembering again what a lucky, fortunate life you lead.

Sitting there, you think about New York.  About how very much you love this island, how it is a place that endlessly fascinates you, how you've tried over and over in your mind to think about the logistics of it all, to ponder how, exactly, all of these millions and millions of people - from the richest of the rich to the poorest of the poor cohabitate the way that they do, that the city functions the way it does.  You realize that you will forever adore the fact that there seem to be certain inalienable truths to this life of New York - there will always be the crazy man in the coffee shop, there will forever be that woman who steps boldly in front of a cab, glaring at them as they have to slam on their breaks for ever...despite the fact that they actually had the green light.  There will always be people yelling on the subway, or dancing among the platforms, there will always be the extremely stylish, just as there will always be that odd looking man with the rainbow colored painted fingernails.  There will be the dog walkers and the starving artists and the very rich artists and so many millions of people in between.  They will always be here.  This pavement, these grid lines, this place...oh, this city.  It was always be here.  Forever changing and yet continually remaining the same.  You metaphorically raise your glass to it all, to the power of Manhattan, to its ability to entice and seduce you the way she has ever since you were a very little girl. 

And yet.  For the very first time in your life, you are completely aware of and understand the reality of a life lived in New York.  You can picture the teeny, tiny apartments, the ones that can't even hold a true sized stove in them, that you know are right around the corner from this bar; the ones that cost at least five times the rent you currently pay for your own beloved apartment back in Boston.  You remember what it feels like to head out for just one drink with friends and come home with $50 less in your bank account.  You recall how frustratingly difficult it was to get out of the city during those days, those weekends, when you just wanted to catch a glimpse of the open sky, to not have a crazy man yelling at random next to you on a subway car, to step outside your door to run and grab a jug of milk without piling your 'armor' on.  It is a feeling of contradictions, a city of contradictions in fact.  And you think to yourself, maybe a little bit surprised and maybe not at all, that you are so, so, so glad you moved here and lived here when you did even when nothing seemed to be working out as you planned and you wondered again and again if you'd made the right decision.

You did.

In the deepest part of your heart you know that you did.  And that you get to have that feeling for forever.

And, in that very same part of your heart, you know that you're also completely content and happy with your life now in Boston too.

You made the right decision to go.  You made the right decision to return.

The next afternoon, after morning meetings that were within walking distance from your hotel, you hop back on the subway, again to head uptown.  Waiting for the train, you walk to the same wooden benches where you sat the day before, you look on the arm rest for the scrawled "Fuck You."  But it's gone.  Scrubbed off.  Wiped clean in the night.  Fresh and anew.