Becoming New York

Umbrella up, umbrella down, walking in rainy New York.  Measure the oncoming crowd, umbrella up, umbrella down.

Every time I take the train I think I become slightly more a New Yorker than before.  I now see the tourists standing out, and even though I may not know where I'm going, I do know how.  There is a time and a destination to my step, a quick change of pace, of trajectory.  Part of me may be irritated the obstacle they create except that I am still so close to them, and except that I love seeing the world in the pictures they take, the placards, the dedications in railway stations.  What a blessing to be surrounded by people that marvel at the world I (will) daily occupy?

Today the train was wet and crowded, crowded, crowded.  And I think I became a little more New York.  My body has pressed up against these people, sharing sweat in an oh-so-uncomfortable way and wishing they would clear the doors so the train could move forward.  My heels have been nipped and amazingly (or is it really?) a sincere apology issued.  I am constantly impressed by the kindness and courtesy shown to me here.  This morning the newspaper vendor gave me an umbrella, You live here?  Yeah.  Pay me tomorrow.

A few nights ago I dreamt of Japan, only it wasn't a Japan in which I had ever lived.  It was a Japanese garden, surely.  But my feet danced over the ground, up and down the walkways, leaping over the delicate greens and across the ponds.  How much is the body involved in what we know of a place?

In New York the ground is hard under everyone's feet.  The steps are large for all the sizes of legs that walk them, except perhaps for the tourists who are looking.  Everyone is going somewhere.  Everyone is important.  There is an urgency that seems even to compel the trains to try harder to move faster.

I am less enthralled by the diversity than I was a week ago.  It is becoming common place, normal, slowly, slowly, less noticeable.  But I think if it is possible to keep something common beautiful, this would be it.  I have recently heard three musicians in my train excursions:  a violinist, an erhu player, and a man playing the kora and singing.  Diversity may become quotidian but it's never the same.

This city is still so full of so many things and I get the impression still that this will never complete change.  And unlike Japan, I think perhaps I could get acclimated to it in the sense that no one really is.  I can start to feel at home in this homeless city, where home is somewhere else for most of its people.  And right now, there is something very comforting in that.