I’m sitting on the floor of my new apartment on West 112th St. My stuff won’t get here for a few more days and until then I am staying with Jennie. I can see a sliver of 112th from my window, otherwise my view is mainly of the other apartments around. But it’s my own place, the hardwood floors have been polished, the ethernet connection is working, and the doorways to the hall and the kitchen are carved into strange arabesque shapes. The rain has finally stopped, and the sun broke through the cloud cover as I said goodbye to Jeff and Sam, who are in town for a few days, outside the Starbucks on Broadway. I had a moment of dislocation, or is it displacement, earlier when I realized that the restaurant at the end of my street is the restaurant on Seinfeld. Or the exterior, anyway. I have that strange Seinfeld jingle going through my head. Otherwise the only sound is a chorus of air conditioners from the surrounding buildings. Unfortunately I do not yet have an air conditioner, I will have to figure out where to get one. So my shirt is sticking against my back where I am leaning against the wall, typing these words, inhaling the scent of fresh paint and sweat. I don’t think it’s too early yet to say that I love it here; or maybe love isn’t the right word. Just that strange feeling of arriving someplace I’ve been working towards for so long. Which is not to say that there won’t be bad days. Just that I won’t have to keep wondering “what if I had moved to New York?”
p.s. Jennie says I can’t call myself a New Yorker until I’ve had to call the plumber after 3 a.m.