I’ve had a hard time putting my experiences into written words these past couple days. Every time I try they just seem too big, too unwieldy to fully capture on the page. But, I’ll share with you this one:

Today I had a “New York day,” as my friend Amanda calls it. This morning I was completely in love with the City and lamenting ever having to leave, but by afternoon I was ready to climb into a hole and hibernate.

It started last night with a subway ride to Astoria, Queens. Getting off at Astoria Boulevard I felt like I was in Chicago. At that stop the train is elevated, and the station is surrounded by brick buildings and empty lots, including a late-night, Denny’s-esque diner on the corner. I was meeting a good friend from college, Kevin, who has been a middle-school teacher and activist in Queens for the past seven years. It was so sweet to see him, a welcome blast from the past. He has become a huge fan of Astoria and his enthusiasm made it easy to love the neighborhood. We started off at the famed Czech beer hall and did some catching up. Then we walked the neighborhood, down Steinway Avenue past bars and stores selling food and wares from all over the world, mostly from the Mediterranean and Middle East. In his words, “Astoria is where New Yorkers go to eat.” And with good reason. We passed restaurants with food from the Balkans, Cyprus, Egypt, India, Pakistan, Japan and Brazil. And that doesn’t even cover all of it. We passed hookah cafes filled with smoke and old Egyptian men, Greek social clubs where members watch the local football games, and a 24-hour vegetable and fruit store selling fresh olives next to Long Island broccoli. We got our dinner from a Pakistani street food vendor who considered food an art and who, I’m sure, would have been a successful diplomat given his steady and thoughtful way of handling customers. Everyone else getting food there seemed extremely loyal and he knew Kevin by name when we walked up.

I stayed the night in Queens, crashing on a blow-up mattress in Kevin’s kitchen (this is NYC). In the morning we went for coffee and then I jumped on the Q line home. The thing about getting from Queens to Brooklyn is that the Q literally runs blocks from either of our apartments. But, it goes through Manhattan to do it, which is incredibly round-about. It’s like going through the Pearl to get from NoPo to Sellwood (if you know what I mean). A 20 minute car ride or a forty-five minute bike ride becomes an hour-and-half subway ride. How perfectly imperfect.

So, since I was passing through Manhattan anyway I decided to stop in Times Square at the meditation center I’ve been attending. Just down the street from one of the most grossly materialistic places I’ve ever seen is a room in a nondescript skyscraper where people sit and let go of worldly attachment. Such is the duality of this place.

Of course, New York tested my inner peace on the way home. I jumped back on the Q after meditation, but construction changed the line so I had to get off to catch the same train on a  different track, like a treasure hunt through a labyrinth, and in the end never found what I needed so I decided to get on the 5 instead, which in turn had a similar problem, so I caught the 3 to the 2 and still had to walk because the conductor decided to skip my stop to make up lost time. Myheadspinning, I just wanted  to   eat   and    lie   down   by the time I got above ground again. I was done. So, when a man collapsed in front of me as I walked home I just wanted to throw up my hands and say, “Give me a break, New York!!!” But I didn’t. Instead, with three other passersby, I paused. Immediately, he groped for his things and got up, a little disoriented but seemingly okay. I passed right next to him, noticed him sway a little, and spotted an open bottle in his back pocket. I exhaled, not worried for his immediate safety anymore but feeling a broader concern. I continued on my way and caught up to one of the women who had just seen the event. “It’s so sad,” she sighed. I agreed. We talked and walked together. She works with children of alcoholic parents, has lived in the neighborhood for decades, and is originally from St. Vincent. The neighborhood is largely Caribbean, mostly Jamaican and Dominican from what I can tell. She welcomed me to the community. I felt blessed by her presence, a cool drink at the end of a long and dusty day.