Nine-hour layovers can be pretty brutal. Three-hour flight delays on top of that can be maddening, especially when you’re sitting in the airport lounge next to piles of fried noodles and Chinese buffet food. (By sitting, I mean stuffing yo face like you’re in your PJs at home alone.) Yes, rich(ish) people problems.
Now if I had realized that a typhoon was on its way and that it ended up shutting down Guangzhou airport for the first time in history and that we only missed it by a hair, I would have felt extremely lucky. Yes, I won the lottery today! More dumplings from the buffet to celebrate! It’s all about perspective.
After a 15-hour flight and the rigamarole of deplaning, I was back in Manhattan. It was about 10:30pm. I picked up exactly where I had left off two months ago, minus the high heels. The air was crisp and breezy. My good friend and I went out in search of rooftop bars and cocktails. The first was a bit of a fail, but cocktails were being poured all around.
First, we went to Little Branch in the West Village, an atmospheric speakeasy with excellent live jazz, for some classic cocktails. I felt transported and at home all at once. Then we ended the night at the Spotted Pig sipping Macallans neat. My homecoming! So much to celebrate. Myself in a bit of a daze.
In classic fashion, I crashed into sleep that night with a melange of high-end cocktails scenting my exhalations. Better than cheap Balinese beer laced with formaldehyde! (Cheers to cheap justifications as well.)
This morning, I woke up before dawn. Woozy. Clearly not making good breakfast choices, I made a double bowl of Chinese noodles (like I wasn’t sick of them already!) . Then I indulged in a bacon, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwich at Au Bon Pain, changing my order about three times. In a glutton of punishment, I forced myself to log all of these items in MyFitnessPal. Zero calories left for the day. It was 6:45am. Okayyyy… I calculated that four hours of walking would undo the damage, so I started walking north.
The streets were quiet pre-rush hour. Clean. I never thought I would think NYC was clean. Calm. Crisp. I meandered up large boulevards and through tree-lined side streets. The layers of my 16 years in this city could not be discerned as concrete memories, but their associations could be felt, lived, recognized on some sub-atomic level of being. Home. Vapid. Familiar. Home.
I walked while on the phone with Kelly in Bali, and then I walked straight to my sister’s boyfriend’s apartment in the West Village, where she was “cooking” breakfast. Layers of lumpy scrambled eggs mixed with shredded cheese were dumped onto mangled turkey bacon pieces. All were presented to her boyfriend, who was eternally grateful because he’s a good guy like that.
The two of us then crowded his bed while he took his early morning work calls. I thought I glimpsed some kind web meeting software on his laptop screen and shuddered. I buried myself further under the covers. We all agreed to meet up for dinner later that night.
Eventually, I made it to Jivamukti yoga in Union Square. The theme of the class was compassion.
I believe there are many versions of ourselves tied to time, place, and people. It’s pathological. My NYC self is back. I now have to decide whether it is the me I want to be and the life I want to live.