City Love(3)

“How cute is that little boy?” Rosanna says.

“I know. I love how sweet this guy is with him.” Part of the reason the street performer has attracted such a huge crowd is his positive energy. He scanned the crowd while he was performing, taking the time to make eye contact with as many people as possible. He paid extra attention to an old lady up front wearing a denim jacket with about ten million buttons. The man radiates goodness. Even his collection bucket is yellow with a big smiley face. HAVE A MAGICAL DAY! is stenciled on with glossy red paint.

“Thanks for swinging by, folks,” he tells the crowd. “You’re the reason I have the opportunity to do what I love every single day. Except when it’s raining. But even when I’m stuck at home instead of shooting Silly String at unsuspecting tourists, I’m still the luckiest man alive because of your support. Thanks so much.” He busts out a final trick where shiny Silly String goes flying above the crowd. More enthusiastic applause.

Street performers fascinate me. I always wonder about the chain of events that led them to where they are now. Did they always want to be street performers? Are bigger dreams burning in their hearts? Or is it all about interacting with an audience for them? Whatever their dreams are, they know they’re in the right place to make those dreams reality.

New York City is for dreamers. New York City will always be where I belong.





TWO

DARCY


IF I CAN MAKE IT here, I can make it anywhere.

As long as I can avoid getting mangled by one of these crazy bikers.

A bike messenger just zoomed past me so quickly a paper bag actually flew up from the sidewalk, sucked into the vortex he left behind. Another flashed by so close to me I had to check to make sure my nose was still attached. The flavor of crack they’re on has yet to be determined.

Mental note: Beware of bike lanes.

Making my way to the building I’ll be calling home this summer while hefting a gigantic backpack would be easier back in Santa Monica. The streets of New York City are fierce. New Yorkers walk like they have to be somewhere right now. Like every single person on the street has to be somewhere right this second. A family of German tourists was nearly taken out by an impatient businessman bursting through their group a few blocks ago. He was running to cross the street before the light changed. The guy had zero awareness that he had almost knocked over a little girl. Perhaps he’d like a side of social skills with his oblivion.

Don’t get me wrong. I absolutely love the frenetic energy of cities. Especially this city, which I believe to be the greatest city in the world. I’m just having a cranky morning on top of hardly sleeping on the plane. Someone should really tell the guy who was sitting next to me that snoring so loudly you make your whole row of seats vibrate is not normal. Underneath my stank mood, I’m appreciating everything (including the bike messengers on crack and strung-out race walkers). These New York sensations are unparalleled: the rush of pounding the pavement in the summer heat, the sound of cabs honking and music blaring from an apartment window, the sight of vintage mopeds in colors like powder pink, and the smell of bacon wafting from a restaurant as I walk by. So much is happening. This is the place where dreams become reality. This is the place where anything is possible. This is the city that never sleeps and I intend to be wide awake for every breathtaking second. Operation Summer Fun Darcy is a go.

I unload my backpack in front of my new building. This building is so New York. Crumbling brick, ancient fire escapes, and a stoop that has clearly seen its share of drama.

I love it.

My backpack has somehow gained fifty pounds since I flew into JFK way too early this morning. Unpacking this monster will be a rigorous endeavor. I dig around in one of the outside pockets for my set of keys. Then I hoist the backpack back on, unlock the heavy front door, unlock the second door after the row of mailboxes, and begin the trek up to 4A. A fourth-floor walkup wasn’t my first choice for a summer share. I only enjoy walking in a mostly horizontal direction. People usually assume I’m athletic by the way I look. But sports (or any kind of working out) is not my thing. I just inherited some good genes. Anyway, this is what UNY’s housing office gave me. My dad refused to spring for a decent apartment. He wanted me to see how average people in the real world live. As if scoring any kind of apartment in downtown Manhattan is average. Dad says I need discipline. I say discipline is confinement in disguise.

By the time I get to the apartment door, I’m sweating. I dump my backpack on the floor. Fortunately I like to layer. I start stripping off my oversize retro tank down to the fitted cami underneath as I turn the key to let myself in.

Sadie and Rosanna are already here. I love that we’ve talked online so I can recognize who’s who. We only had a few minutes, but it was enough to get a general idea of their personalities. Sadie (midlength copper hair with gold highlights, brown eyes, petite, ready for her internship in a pretty floral top and black pencil skirt) is unpacking kitchen stuff with all the cabinets open. Rosanna (long wavy light brown hair, brown eyes, taller, ready for camp in a basic tee and shorts) is turning the kitchen table around. They stop what they’re doing when I burst into the apartment. I don’t mean to burst. It’s just kind of how I roll.

“Hey, ladies,” I say, whipping the tank over my head and flinging it on the nearest chair. Then I lug my bag in and drop it near the couch. “This place is fantastic. Look at those windows!” We were graced with the good fortune of scoring a prewar apartment with huge French windows. Almost makes up for the Everestesque climb. “Don’t you want to open them?”