I missed NY for the first time today.
Or the thought os no longer living in NY. I will miss the ease of movement, the ability to be invisible, the endless supply of new food, music, at, and people. I will miss me in NY. I found myself in that city. A city so cluttered with objects and scents and sounds and people, so possible to get lost within. Not me. I found me. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t always fun. It hurt much of the time. But I am better for it. I am without the same pains. Or now I know them and how to heal. I will miss wandering streets and finding new things. I will miss 11pm cupcake runs and 4am film screenings. I will miss walking along the river with a book in hand, searching for the perfect spot to read. I will miss my friends. I will miss NY even when it brought me down. I will miss the comforts I found.
I miss NY.
I don’t miss New York. Took me about three days to realize that. I was looking around Denver and suddenly thought “it used to be that at this point I was missing home.” I don’t know that New York qualifies as home though. Yes, it’s where I have lived for the past 6 years and 5 months, but is it home? Truthfully, I don’t know that any one place qualifies as home. My two closest friends and my parents are in Virginia, the state I grew up in. But I don’t consider Virginia home. My partner is in North Carolina, and while I am considering it as an option to settle into at some point – possibly, maybe – I don’t call it home either. New York is full of friends and a sister. California is occupied by three siblings. Arizona has a cousin I consider a sibling. I guess all these places are some strange variation of home. People I love live in these places. I am on a trip that will take me to at least seven states, possibly four countries, and I am not certain where I will end up. I have belongings in New York, Virginia, and some soon to be in Maryland. Maybe I don’t need all those belongings. Why does any one person need that much stuff? But I digress. Maybe the point is that anywhere I go becomes home.
My mother’s family came to the United States from Ireland, escaping the Potato Famine. As far as I know, after settling in New Jersey, they never really left. My mother seems to be one of the very “strange” to have left. Not only did she get out of New Jersey, she’s lived in a few states, traveled to almost all fifty states, and other countries, and she’s lived in Iran. My father came to the United States about fifty years ago from Iran. He’s also lived in a few states – having started in New York – traveled this country, and even more of the world than my mom. He’s been to five continents. That is impressive. Apparently the Iranian side of the family has some Bedouin blood from way back when – nomadic blood. Then of course there’s the fact that the Iranian/Aryan people migrated some thousands of years ago west (from present day Russia) to present day Germany and Iran.
Point is, movement is in my blood. That’s nothing special, I know. Doesn’t particularly set me apart from anyone really. What does though, is the feeling within me to move. I feel connected to all the past experiences and identities – as if they’ve been leading up to this point of travel. But I don’t want this to be my only big trip – it can’t. I want to go to Iran in a few years. I want to visit Vietnam and South Korea. I want to see Serbia and Peru. I want to go to Ghana and Australia. Everywhere. I want to go everywhere.
I want to live in a world without borders and where travel is easy for everyone.
And I don’t miss New York. I miss certain things – like the strange comfort in a never quiet street. That fact that everywhere is crowded. I miss that.
Art outside the Denver Public Library