I’ve returned home from a long weekend in New York City.
I had been planning this trip for weeks. I made lists of the exhibits I wanted to see, culled from issues of The New Yorker. I had the names and addresses of the hippest restaurants I could imagine being let into. Bookstores and lists of books I hadn’t easily found elsewhere. Locations all over the city: Upper east side, upper west side, mid-town, lower east side, SoHo, Long Island City.
I had made plans to see people, too. I was going to see one of my dearest friends from high school, who I had not seen in nearly a decade (upper east side). A grad school friend who I just learned was six months pregnant (west side), and I was staying with a friend in Brooklyn who wanted me to experience all her favorite places in the borough (Prospect Park, Red Hook).
Did I mention I had to swing through Westchester on my way home, to visit with my family? That, too.
So, I didn’t make it to everything on the list. But a lot of it. And a lot of it unexpected, unplanned. What I thought would be about new experiences ended up feeling a lot more like a kind of homecoming. I’ll explain in the next few entries.