My children will remember little about living in New York — only, perhaps, the peculiarly sweet smell of the stairwell descending to the 86th street subway stop (“it smells like strawberry candy,” mini used to say, as I half-cringed, wondering at the scent’s provenance) and the fact that a donut shop was at the end of our block, a marvel mini still presents to strangers when asked about her experience in Manhattan, as though proximity to fried dough is the hallmark of the good.
Just after our move, I was reticent to talk much about New York with them, in part because they repeatedly clamored for our nanny and I did not know how best to navigate that schism without presenting its finality. It’s not that I quelled the conversation when raised, but that I proactively re-focused it on our re-planting in Bethesda. I modeled excitement and wonder at our new backyard and the quiet cul de sac in which the neighborhood children played; I spoke openly about how wonderful it was to see grandparents and cousins whenever we wanted; I swanned around our new home with arms outstretched: “so much space, guys!” It was no hollow performance. I could feel myself begin the long process of unwinding from a string of six stressful years. The unspooling continues to this day. While traveling with the children this summer, Mr. Magpie unearthed a sudden new truth about ourselves, as though with a clank of the excavatory shovel: we are too tightly-wound, still. (Oh! That’s still here! I thought to myself.) We must do more to untether ourselves from the stress of these past few years: we still move with the guarded intensity of New Yorkers. It is unnecessary in our new lives here, but it will take many years, I think, to reprogram. And it was not just New York, anyhow: it was several moves, it was two children, it was enormous professional transitions, it was a pandemic, it was a transition in identities. It was a stress that was layers deep.
Funny, though: visiting New York last week shored no bad memories. Mr. Magpie and I strolled around happily, unencumbered: there was great liberty and lightness of foot visiting rather than living there. The sensation of constantly shouldering against the unknown, the gross, the angsty no longer belonged to us. We could look upon the “patina” (euphemism) of the city and its inhabitants with a kind of “oh, New York” sigh, knowing that at the other end of the Amtrak, our pristine home and manicured lawn waited. These truths made me realize that New York belongs to nobody — or, at least, it certainly does not belong to me. It will continue to spiral into the future agnostic to my prepossessions and hopes. As a narrow example, I took the 1 train up to my former neighborhood on the Upper West Side and it felt exactly the same to me. The same wide sidewalks, the same broad streets, the same feeling of clearance it affords after being in midtown and below. And yet, a new, lovely coffee shop had opened up next to the dumpy corner grocery at which we used to buy overpriced milk and strangely well-priced fruit for our children, and it completely transformed the energy of the block. No longer was it the side of the street I’d avoid when walking down Amsterdam. It was now pleasant, clean, with string lights trellised through the awning. If I were to move into that neighborhood now, I’d never have imagined it otherwise. The image of a Russian Doll materialized: how, over time, these corners of the city change and change again, continuously swallowing their former selves. After all, my dumpy grocery used to be a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. I know this because the grocery had inexplicably retained the awning with its faded lettering, as though the labor of removing it or writing over the letters was too expensive or unimportant to bother with. New York can be that way: shruggingly disconcerted. Anyhow, at one time, Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf was, to my youthful mind, the elite coffee shop for celebs, as I routinely saw it on the pages of People and the like under section headings like: “Celebs – They’re Just Like Us!” and Jen Aniston would be buying herself a latte from there. And so my assumption is that, at some other layer of the Russian Doll, that corner of the UWS was bustlingly attractive: the side of the street you’d intentionally walk on. By the time we’d moved in, it had slunk into dinginess with the grocery, and now this new coffee shop is elevating the block anew.
What I mean to reiterate is this: New York feels to me no more knowable than the Atlantic Ocean. Yes, I feel comfortable navigating its streets and subways, but on a metaphysical level: it fluctuates, it moves, it resists, it surges. And so how on earth do I remember it to my children? Speaking pragmatically, there are obvious “hooks” and “cornerstone memories” to repeat to them: the day we released monarch butterflies we’d grown from caterpillars in Central Park. (Mini named each and every one of them “Bamba.”). The mornings we spent at the Museum of Natural History. The scootering around the fountains in front of The Met. The daily subway rides to Flatiron for school. The Tilly on the mural at 42nd Street (there is, inexplicably, an airedale terrier — our dog! — on one of the murals there if you are transferring from the 1 to the RW). The trick or treating at the dry cleaner’s. And yes, Emory, the donut shop at the end of our block from which she’d earn one donut hole after good behavior in Church on Sunday mornings.
But on a philosophical level: who were they there? Who were we there? A small, tightly-wound family just eking by while the entire world stopped? One that longed for a backyard and more space? One that steeled itself against the dangers and dinginesses of the city? Or the adventurous young family who aimed to make everyday as special as possible by virtue of or in spite of the backdrop of New York City? One that knew how magical it was to live in such a spectacular, alive, dynamic place? One that saw how rare and gem-like it was to live at one of the centers of the world, to be a part of it (new york, new york)?
Time will tell; we are just now writing the next chapter, and I can’t tell which part is the proform. Funny how that can happy in the midst of a big life change: when I look back at 80, will the stint in New York be more self-defining than the exhale of Bethesda? Where will the accent fall — are we in dactyl or anapest?
Onward we go —
Shopping Break.
+On our decision to leave New York.
+Imprints of our new (suburban) lifestyle.
+What it felt like after “surviving” the pandemic in NYC.
+New York is — always, still — a shock.
Post-Scripts.
+These classic Celine shades are on sale for only $150!
+I think I need this evil eye necklace for my stack.
+A great tote to keep in the back of your car – my mom has a similar one and the structure makes it great for keeping grocery bags together, tossing in a handful of items, etc.
+Veronica Beard’s sale section is a treasure trove — how chic are this tweed jacket, this transition-to-fall midi, and this floral top?
+LOVE this quilted, fabric vest for fall. Vests are big this upcoming season — more to come on this trend and how to wear.
+A great striped blouse — on sale for under $100! (Would pair with the aforementioned vest!)
+Mango has some great pieces out right now — love this coatigan; this coat in the green; and this quilted gilet.
+Have to order this dress for my girl — the style is called “The Emory”! Love the short length!
+These carry-along sketchbooks are great for travel / restaurants / etc!
+These under-$100 sandals nail the “dad sandal” look for less. They remind me a bit of a pair by Fabrizio Viti I’ve been eyeing.
+If you don’t love the dad sandal vibe but want some fresh footwear to lead you through the end of the summer into fall, these LRs are perfection in the chocolate suede.
+Eyeing this under-$50 utility jacket in navy for fall.
+Swooning over this Cecilie Bahnsen after I saw the ultra-chic Liz Damrich in it.
+How cute is this ribbon for wrapping up gifts?
+If you like those Khaite Western boots, you might like these Marc Fishers — a fraction of the price to get in on the trend. Isabel Marant also makes a chic pair.
+How cool are these acrylic luggage tags that Bradley discovered?
