Cycles

Union Square - photo by MAG

Frank Sinatra always manages to sing his way into my life when I need it the most.

Lately, people have been asking me exactly when I’ll be making the move to New York. I understand the question to be part curiosity, part support and part desire to know that someone is making their dreams come true. And while I know that I began this blog as a way of actively moving toward my dream of living in the city, the truth is that I don’t know.

In the past year, I have traveled more than I ever imagined – both physically and emotionally – and I’ve come to realize that it’s the dreaming, not the outcome of the dreams, that matters the most. I can’t know where I’m going to end up, I can only plant the seeds of a dream, tend the garden, and accept that, no matter how hard I try, I cannot control Mother Nature.

I know that sounds fatalistic, and maybe even pessimistic, but I don’t see it that way at all. I view my life as an experiment – a hand’s-on learning lab of sorts – and in order to gain the most from it, I have to let go of the notion that to be “successful” means I must, somehow, achieve absolutely everything I set out to do.

Not all crops make it to the harvest season, but even the ones that fail to thrive serve a purpose – those crops fertilize the ones that remain viable.

Around this time last year, I was teaching, was on the verge of starting a second job, and was still dreaming about finding a way to travel to New York City. A year later, I’m still teaching, have left the second job, and spent an amazing week in New York City. I learned that teaching is my passion; it’s my reason for getting up in the morning and the one job I would do even if I didn’t get paid to do it. Teaching is who I am. My second job, in sales, was instrumental in helping me understand this, and I will be forever thankful for the experience and for the opportunity to work with some of the most intelligent, creative, and incredibly kind people I’ve ever known.

And New York…well…New York helped me realize that it’s not so much where I am physically, as it is my perception of and my attitude toward where I am that matters the most. As long as I am learning, growing, and excited about all of the possible adventures that each new day brings, I will be happy anywhere.

For me, New York City really is a state of mind.

This epiphany freed me from a lot of “have to’s” and “should’s”, and opened up new ways of thinking about where I am, and where I want to be. It has me realize that the people who truly love and support me [my students, colleagues, friends, and family] are absolutely vital to my growth efforts because they continue to have faith in my wide-eyed optimism and my belief that I can grow something in even the the most unlikely soil. The people I love celebrate when my garden flourishes, and generously share their resources during the lean times.

So, what’s next?

As usual, I’ve got new ideas, new plans, and new dreams, and I’ve begun planting a few seeds with the knowledge that every savvy gardener possesses – growing things takes patience, time, and faith in nature’s cycle. Earlier this week, I was reminded of this when I heard Old Blue Eyes singing the words, “Life is like the seasons/After winter comes the spring/So I’ll keep this smile awhile/And see what tomorrow brings.”

I believe I’ll do just that.

Brooklyn

Brooklyn Heights from Lower Manhattan. Photo from Wikimedia Commons

All signs point to Brooklyn.

I’ve been researching where I want to live when I move to New York, and while I’ve tried to envision myself in many of the different neighborhoods, I seem to be getting a signal from the universe that Brooklyn is where I belong.

The first sign was the Battle of Brooklyn. Fought in 1776 after the signing of the Declaration of Independence, it was the longest and largest battle of the entire American Revolutionary War.  Brooklyn is stubborn, resistant and has a history of doing things its own way – I can relate.

The idea that I should live in Brooklyn started to germinate about a year and a half ago, when I begged D. to take pictures of “all those Brooklyn girls” mentioned in Rod Stewart’s song “Downtown Train.”  D. promised he’d try, but I think he’s been wary about invading other people’s privacy – even on a subway platform – either that or Brooklyn girls scare him [Don’t judge! I’ve heard those girls are kind of tough].  In any case, my imagination ran wild and “Brooklyn girls” became the mythical representation of all that is mysteriously exciting about New York City.  I want to be one.  I think.

The second sign occurred during a shopping trip with J. We visited Sephora in search of the perfect shade of pink-but-not-too-pink lipstick.  After an hour of trying on every brand and shade we could locate [and assuring the nice sales people who work that, yes, we we were finding everything okay] we finally found the perfect shade – Buxom’s “Brooklyn” [which we now both own!].

A few weeks later, J. sent me an email in which she had attached a link to a line of address change cards from Lucky Duck Letter Press.  The cards are called “Brooklyn Brownstone” and they’re perfect!

Last month, Daily Candy offered up creations from the Butter Queen of Brooklyn! Four flavors of homemade butter named after former US First Ladies: Martha Washington: Roasted Garlic, Chives, and Tarragon; Eleanor Roosevelt: Pecan Praline; Jackie O.: Bing Cherry, Bourbon Vanilla, and Pink Sea Salt; Lady Bird: Hibiscus Lime.  Yummy!

Photo by Butter Queen of Brooklyn.

I’ve also been digging through the real estate ads again.  I’ve fallen in love with curved nooks, large windows and the personality of each Brooklyn brownstone, but I’ve also realized that falling in love is probably going to cost me upwards of $2000.00 a month. This is probably the minimum I’ll need to rent an apartment that is in a safe neighborhood and has enough space to allow me to maintain a bedroom rather than mount a sleeping bunk over the stove in the kitchen.  I’m either going to need a bigger savings account or a better paying job – or both.

There is something very appealing about being able to live in a part of the city that feels like a community.  Brooklyn is the largest of the five bouroughs in New York with a population of more than 2.5 million.  Its residents are incredibly diverse in race, class, gender, sexuality, and country of origin making it an intersection of interesting experiences!  Brooklyn offers a lively residential experience, proximity to the city, and a chance to escape the urban jungle for a little greenery and the hope of being able to afford an apartment that is bigger than the size of the average high school gym locker.

Photo by the New York Observer

The ethnic makeup of Brooklyn lends itself to a wide variety of restaurants and shops – Italian in Bensonhurst, Dyker Heights, and Bay Ridge; West Indian in Crown Heights and Flatbush; Polish in Greenpoint; and Chinese in Sunset Park.  The city has also provided the backdrop for books such as William Styron’s Sophie’s Choice, Betty Smith’s A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and Paule Marshall’s Brown Girl, Brown Stones [three books I have loved!], and for the 1970s cult classic, Saturday Night Fever.  C’mon, who wouldn’t want to live in the city where John Travolta strutted down the street in white polyester bell bottoms as the Bee Gees blared from a boom box?

The sign that made me finally admit that Brooklyn is where I belong, appeared last weekend when a woman came into the store where I work and asked for a small  part.  While we were waiting to see if it was available, we got to talking about what she did for a living.  She told me that she was a grad student at NYU, and when I asked where she lived in the city her answer was – yep – Brooklyn.

Brooklyn seems like the right choice for me.  It’s close enough for me to be able to work and play in Manhattan, but far enough away to give the hope of being affordable and to provide a respite from the hustle and bustle.  The architecture is beautiful, and so far, the apartments I’ve perused on the New York Times Real Estate section seem cozy, but full of light.

I think I could feel very much at home in the city where all those Brooklyn girls live!

One Year to Move Soundtrack

That’s the Way It Is

Photo by DMT

I’m a slow mover.

Admittedly, I love to dream big – about everything – but the impulse and the action are two very separate things in my world.  Most of the time, I am able to identify my dreams very clearly, but I have to sit with them for a while before I find the courage to turn them into reality, and lately I’ve felt the urge to turn my New York City plan into something more than just a dream.

I think what’s made me hesitant about moving forward is that I view moving to the city the same way I view entering into a long-term committed relationship.  I fell hard and fast for the city, but settling down with it makes me nervous.  What if I’ve over-romanticized this city?  What if I don’t know what I need to know, and I find out I’ve made a huge mistake?  What if the city isn’t all that it appears to be and I end up disappointed in it?  What if we’re a bad fit, and I feel obligated to stay because I’ve made such a big deal out of it?  What if the city breaks my heart?

I know I’m anthropomorphizing this city, but that’s me – the pragmatic dreamer.

I don’t have a good track record when it comes to relationships, and this plays a large part in my thinking.  In the past, I’ve idealized things and as a result, I’ve jumped in too far, too fast, and lived to regret my decisions.  Why?  Because I’m stubborn and because I feel guilty for letting people down.  This is what makes me nervous about New York City, and why it’s taking me so long to put the wheels in motion.  I know I love the city, but I don’t want to make another mistake.

Yet I know that mistakes are the only way I ever learn anything, and that I can’t spend my life trying to amass enough evidence in order to avoid making mistakes.  Sometimes I have to let go and just make the leap – but it’s so difficult and scary.

Lately I’ve been recalling something D. said to me a very long time ago.  We were deep into a philosophical discussion of the nature of love and how love works, and I spun out a million theories on how love might work.  I think, for D., the solution was simple and self-evident, but he patiently fielded my million and one questions until he finally said, “Mary, it’s not love if you don’t throw yourself into it 100%.”  I didn’t disagree with him, but I wanted to know how I could maintain my individuality and autonomy without compromising myself.  I wanted evidence that I could throw myself in 100% and not lose who I was.  D. chuckled as he responded, “You don’t have to “give up” anything, but when you’re really in love there will be things you want to let go of in order to compromise.”

I can see this now as I start to plan my move.  I love New York City.  I love its beauty and its grittiness.  I love the possibility of adventure and excitement just as much as I love the inevitability of the challenges that will cause me to struggle. I love that I will never completely know – or even understand – it, and that that will be what keeps me interested and excited about it.

I want to leap in and trust that everything will work out exactly the way it’s supposed to work out.  So,  I will approach my relationship with New York City as openly, honestly, and optimistically as possible.  I will learn to compromise, and I will love this city for better and for worse.  I will choose to believe that we can learn to live happily ever after.

After all, love – in any form – comes to those who believe it.

One Year to Move Blog Music

Cool Change

Living Room – before. Photo by MAG

When I was fourteen, my mother decided she would be nice and surprise me by painting my bedroom a very cheerful shade of yellow, and rearranging my furniture to “freshen things up a bit.”  I loved the new color, but the rearranged furniture was beyond the pale.  Shedding tears of frustration, I stubbornly – and immediately – began to move everything back to exactly where it had been before the painting began – by my own big self. However, in the process of moving furniture around, I discovered a whole new way of arranging the room and wound up loving it.

Contrary to popular belief, control freaks don’t eschew change, we just want to be in charge of it.

Recently, a friend told me about a conversation he’d had while drinking in a dive bar in Harlem nearly a decade ago.  L. said that a man on the bar stool next to him, an Iraqi immigrant in his 50s, started a conversation by saying that he believed human beings needed to move every six months in order to avoid becoming complacent.  L. said that he listened as the man argued his case [in the way that people who are slightly inebriated tend to do] and was fascinated by the rationale. The man argued that most humans get too comfortable when they live in one spot for too long, and that in order to keep the mind and body fresh one needs to move frequently in order to experience new ways of looking at the world.  Where he came up with the six month time frame, L. had no idea, and while he understood the theory, L. couldn’t quite buy into the prospect of physically moving that often.

I, too, understand what the man was getting at, but since I am a person who breaks into a cold sweat at the thought of having to pack a suitcase for an occasional weekend in Chicago, having to pack up everything I own and physically move it to a new location every six months would, in all likelihood, require frequent – and hefty – doses of Xanex.

However, I do think that this man had the right idea.  For a lot of folks, “getting comfortable” is the point of what they do – it’s why they hold jobs and buy property – and it’s what makes them feel safe and secure.  However, stability and security frequently come at a price because while comforting, these things can also be deadening.  I think this is what the Iraqi gentleman was trying to explain; an attachment to “things,” in the name of security, is dangerous when it leads to complacency.  His answer?  Forward movement.

I think that, for me, the key to adapting to change is about both forward movement and backward glances.  I need the new experiences, but I also need the memories to remind me where I’ve been.  For as long as I can remember, I’ve been someone who has sought out change, and I can look back now and see that the reason for this is fairly simple — I cannot stand being bored, and the only antidote to boredom is the constant challenge presented by change.  This need, combined with my impulsive nature, has made for some rather interesting life experiences, but I can honestly say that I can count, on one hand, the number of times I’ve actually been bored in my life.  Fortunately, my lifelong, overwhelming need to write has also meant that each change in my life has been scrupulously recorded in one of my many journals.  Through the combination of my experiences and my writing, I can clearly see that change, more often than not, ends up being beneficial for me — even when I’m not in control of it — so I’ve tried to re-frame my attitude toward [and approach to] change, and for the most part, I’ve been successful.

The change I’m facing as I prepare to move to New York City both excites and unnerves me.

I’m excited by the prospect of actually living a dream – of living in “the city that never sleeps” and of finding new ways to satisfy my constant need to learn and grow.  I am in love with the notion that I could hop on the subway and, in a relatively short period of time, be somewhere new and exciting.  I love the fact that New York is a vibrant, ever-changing place where I could experience the vast array of cultures, cuisines, and architecture simply by walking in one direction or another.  I love that the city is a living, breathing historical artifact that embodies the drives and desires of the millions of people who have worked to create it.  And what excites me the most is thinking about how I could be a part of it all!

Photo by DMT

When I daydream about living in New York City, I picture myself striding down a crowded sidewalk, heading toward a museum, restaurant, or concert.  I envision myself meeting scores of new and interesting people everywhere from the subway to the corner bodega.  And I smile when I think about the fact that New York offers me a kind of paradise when it comes to my need for constant stimulation.

However, I also feel nervous about leaving the safety and security of my home in Michigan, and setting out to discover the unknown.  The truth is that without my familiar physical surroundings, I’m afraid I’ll forget what I’ve learned about how to live this life that I love so much.

I love my apartment in Michigan because it’s been the place in which I’ve undergone a metamorphosis.  When I moved in almost two years ago, I was excited about the prospect of living on my own and shaping my life into something that reflected who I was and who I wanted to be.  Bit by bit, I began discarding the artifacts left over from my former life, and replacing them with things that felt more like “me.”

It was cathartic and freeing to let go of the past and begin to discover what I liked, but it was also a little scary since I didn’t know what I liked and I was constantly worried that I’d make the “wrong” choice.  I started small – replacing my lunch bag and purchasing two new coffee mugs – and gradually worked my way up to redecorating my living room and workspace this past summer.  I found that when I stopped and really listened to my gut instincts, I rarely made mistakes, and the “mistakes” I did make were usually the result of one of two things: either doing what I thought I “should” do or rushing into a purchase when my instincts told me to wait and see.  I also began to realize that nothing had to be permanent.  If I didn’t like what I’d done, I could return what I’d bought and try again – decorating wasn’t a trap, instead it became a process of discovery.

In the beginning, it was a little frightening to let go of the things that had come to define me during the decade I’d spent with my ex-partner.  Actually, I was in turmoil, at times, because I had to stop and take a cold hard look at how much of myself I’d given up during the relationship – and sometimes the view wasn’t pretty.  My decorating epiphany came the day I finally replaced the rosebud covered bedspread and matching pink sheets [which I’d never really liked, but had agreed to simply to prevent an argument] with a simple two-toned taupe duvet cover and a set of sheets in an earthy yellow-green shade from IKEA.  I loved the simplicity of the design-free earth tones; uncluttered and calming.  The bedroom emboldened me, and soon I replaced the Martha Stewart yellow-with-blue-flowers shower curtain with a taupe/tan/off-white curtain in a simple geometric design and towels in muted earth tones.

Redecorating, a task that had previously felt overwhelming, became a pleasurable pursuit as I sought out things that made me feel at home in my home.  I could choose whatever suited me!  I didn’t have to negotiate or justify what I liked and wanted! And I didn’t feel pressured to spend a lot of money on my purchases, in fact, a lot of times I found that I took greater satisfaction in unearthing deals in the most unlikely places [I found my bathroom rug, which perfectly matches my zen color scheme, at Meijer for under $10.00].

Photo by MAG

On a trip to Chicago, J. and I browsed the fabric selection at The Needle Shop, and found the perfect fabric with which I could make a headboard for my bed.  I bought plywood and a staple gun at Home Depot, batting and foam at JoAnne Fabrics, brought it all home, and proceeded to make a headboard that perfectly matches my bedroom decor.  In a true act of serendipity, D. forwarded a photo he’d taken long before I’d envisioned the headboard, and one of the buildings in the photo happened to match the colors in the fabric and my sheets, so I framed it and hung it over my bed.

This past June, I felt like I finally had the confidence to tackle my living room and work space.  I prepared by scouring interior design books and magazines for ideas, and asking for advice from J. and my interior design students.  I also began collecting art that fit my decorating scheme, and meant something to me.  A typography print one of my Art History students made for her final project, one of L.’s paintings, and a number of D’s photographs all grace my walls, and make this apartment feel like home.

One of the nicest parts of redecorating was being able to do it “my own big self.”  My ex-partner was a stickler for details and wouldn’t let me put together furniture or hang pictures because I don’t tend to do things the “right way” [and I will openly admit that when it comes to reading directions, I fail – epically].  Decorating my apartment has given my friends some good laughs as I’ve learned how to use a power drill [FYI: The attachment on the power drill is for screws, not for drilling holes in the walls], and put together my furniture.  Did it take me several long afternoons-turned-into-evenings to assemble my bedroom chair and my living room sofa?  Yes.  Are my curtain rods hung on nails because I can’t figure out how to drill holes for screws in the walls above my sliding glass doors?  Yes.  Are all of my pictures hung at slightly odd angles because I didn’t use a level to line up the nails?  You bet.  Do I care?  Not in the least.

Living Room – after. Photo by MA

So, how can I move away from this wonderful haven where I’ve learned how to live freely and dream openly, again?  Honestly, I don’t know.  Packing up and leaving will be difficult and, most likely, painful, but I will do it because, as D. has reminded me time and again, “You can’t lose your memories, Mary.  They are yours to keep — forever.”

And I have faith that I will.

My Way

 

Photo by DMT

 

Frank Sinatra on Crack saved me.

Last week I made a big, bold – and impulsive – declaration about living a dream.  When I made it, I believed it.  I was feeling excited about the possibilities and confident in my ability to make things happen.  I was ready to elope!  Over the weekend the realities began to set in.

As anyone who has ever planned for a move knows, there are a million things that need to be done before the actual move can happen, and when you start talking about moving to a whole new state, the tasks begin to exponentially multiply.  This weekend I dove into the dream by pulling out all of my financial records for the past year in order to pull together a budget.  Oh please, don’t look at me like that.  Most Americans don’t have a budget spreadsheet that calculates everything down to the penny.  Or maybe that’s just me.

The point is that once I pulled out all of the paperwork and had it spread out on my desk, I started to feel overwhelmed.  I started thinking about all of the other tasks I’d need to complete – culling my possessions so that I can downsize from 750 sq. ft. of living space to 450 sq. ft., packing my remaining possessions, finding someone to load them up, move them, and unload them 1000 miles away – and it made me want to scrap the budget and head out to the pool.  My stubbornness won out, and I stayed in and worked on the budget.  A few hours later, as I saved my Excel spreadsheet, I realized that I’d only input two months worth of data. Again, the pool beckoned, and this time I gave in.

The truth is – I’m scared.

I’m scared because I want to make this dream a reality so badly that I can taste it, but I also know that I don’t have control over what will or will not happen.  I’m scared because I’ve put this dream out there in the blog universe and shared it with everyone I know.  I’m scared because I want to do this “right” even though I know that there is no right way to do anything.

I also know that people who love and care about me are a little concerned about this latest development.  I tend to be a wide-eyed optimist who views the world in a positive light. It baffles those who aren’t able to understand how I maintain sunny outlook, and it worries those who have watched me leap – and fall. My friends and family worry about me because they think my optimism is someday going to get me killed, and New York’s reputation isn’t helping matters.

Some of it is an issue of physical safety.  I’m the kind of person who truly believes that you get back what you put out there, so if I’m just polite and respectful to the drug dealers on the corner, they’ll reciprocate.  If there were a contest, I’d probably be voted “Person Most Likely to Be Killed While Introducing Herself in a Dangerous Neighborhood.” The realist in me understands that I’m not going to stop a bullet just by being nice to it, but the idealist believes that in order for the bullet not to fly in the first place someone has to start somewhere.  This does not allay the fears of the people who love me.

When I told D. that I had found a beautiful Hamilton Heights apartment that was also totally affordable, he responded “Mary, there’s a reason it’s nice AND affordable. It’s in Harlem, looks like it’s near Columbia University, which is not a nice area.”  And I replied, “But can’t we all just get along?  I mean, if I’m in my optimistic, chirpy bubble what can go wrong?” His lack of response let me know that the irresistible force had met the immovable object.

Since stereotypes about New Yorkers and their rude attitudes abound, other people worry that my Pollyanna-style approach to life will cause me to be eaten alive in the big city.

Recently I was talking about this move with a very dear and trusted friend.  T. looked at me and said, “I was telling my daughter about you.  I told her how you always see everything so positively and that you always look for the good in every person.  You’re the kind of person who would ask a bank robber if they’d done it because they needed money for food! You need to protect yourself a little more otherwise you’re going to get used and hurt. New York isn’t going to be safe for you!”

I smiled as I replied, “I know, but here’s what I understand about myself.  I look at the world in a positive light because I’ve tried operating from the self-protection side, and you know what?  It didn’t make me happy.  I want to see things in a positive light because that’s what I believe is possible, and I’m happiest when I’m living in a way that leaves the world around me a little brighter.” I understood exactly what she meant, though, and I took it as a compliment because I know we love and respect each other.  I really do believe that, in the end, only kindness matters.

I’m still scared, though. I don’t want to let people down, but more than that, I don’t want to let me down.

And that’s where Frank enters the story.

When I get ready to teach my routine includes tuning into a radio station that I laughingly call “Crack Radio” [it’s actually Doug 93.1 FM].  The station’s tag line is “We play everything,” and  do they ever.  The result is a wacky mix that never fails to strike a chord in me.  When I tuned in yesterday the Boss was belting out “No Surrender,” which was followed by “Only the Good Die Young,” and “I Won’t Back Down.” I laughed out loud and shook my head as I returned to getting ready – and thinking about my dream-related fears.  I had just settled in to the beginnings of a “flash flood” (when my brain opens up and unleashes the full fury of my thoughts in a torrential downpour) when I heard the quiet opening notes.

Sinatra’s strong, clear voice floated out of the little speaker, “And now, the end is near/So I face the final curtain.”   His tone was calm, but resigned to the knowledge that this was the end. “Regrets, I’ve had a few;/But then again, too few to mention/I did what I had to do/And saw it through without exemption.”  Both the music and Frank’s voice rose as he exclaimed “I’m sure there were times you knew/When I bit off more than I could chew.”  I stood still, listening to him confidently declare “I faced it all and I stood tall/And did it my way!”  Tears welled up in my eyes, as the Chairman lowered his voice and sang “I’ve loved, I’ve laughed, and cried/I’ve had my fill; my share of losing.” Frank understood me, and as the music swelled for the final verse, my tears flowed freely.  I lifted my chin, straightened my shoulders, and faced myself in the mirror as Frank belted out the final verse, “For what is a man, what has he got?/If not himself, then he has naught./To say the things he truly feels;/And not the words of one who kneels./The record shows I took the blows -/And did it my way!”

At that moment, I knew that no matter how scared I might feel as I work toward New York City, I’m not going to quit.  I can’t control what’s going to happen at the end of this journey, but I can say with absolute certainty – I’m going to do it my way.

And I know that Old Blue Eyes has my back.

Falling for New York City

 

 

Photo by DMT

 

Three years ago, my best friend, J., and I traveled to New York City to celebrate my 4oth birthday. We stayed in the SoHotel at night, and by day, we walked the sidewalks searching out the best breakfast restaurants, finding small fabric stores, exploring the nooks and crannies of Greenwich, Chinatown, and Little Italy.  One memorable day, we walked down 5th Avenue, and stopped in H.Stern, where I casually convinced J. to try on a $12,000 necklace. My friend is an experienced traveler who had visited New York many times before, but she patiently did the tourist things, like waiting in line for over an hour to ride the elevator up to the top of the Empire State Building so that I could see the view and take the same photos that millions of other tourists have taken – poorly.  J. is also a serious foodie, so she had mapped out our meals from day one to day four.  We ate breakfast at Le Pain Quotidien, lunch at Balthazar and picked up cheese, hard salami and good French baguettes at Dean and Deluca for dinner.  Another night we ate dinner at Hampton Chutney Co., and then stopped to sample rice pudding at Rice to Riches.  If you want to eat your way through New York, J. is hands down the best person to plan your itinerary.

It was a painful trip for me, not only because I had failed to bring comfortable walking shoes and wound up with blisters on the first day, but also because the trip illuminated the fact that I was not at all happy in my long-term relationship.  New York made me realize that my life in Michigan had become miserable and small.  I could see that I was definitely not living the life I loved nor loving the life I lived. This epiphany, combined with the blisters, did not make me the best traveling companion, but J. was more than understanding about what was going on and took it in stride. We had an incredibly good time in spite of everything.

I returned home with a vague nagging sense of wanting something more out of life, but I had no idea what that was.  As life with my partner became less satisfying, I would look toward New York as an example of something bigger, richer, and more fulfilling.  I would think about it, search out information about it, and talk about it non-stop until one day it struck me – I had had a brief, but torrid affair with New York City.  I didn’t want to admit this because it made me feel guilty and ashamed, but the more I thought about New York, the less happy I was in my relationship.  My partner wasn’t as exciting, interesting, or engaging as the city had been.  New York was sleek and sexy, and when I flirted with it I felt vibrant and alive again.  I wanted to be living a fast-paced life full of activity with interesting places to go and new people to meet. Instead, I was sitting on a suburban couch watching other people living interesting lives while I wasted mine simply observing.

A year and a half after my birthday trip the relationship hit rock bottom.  I told my partner that I wanted something more out of my life and moved out. I set about reclaiming my life and began to enjoy it immensely, and for a while, my new-found freedom was a substitute for my city crush.  I began doing all of the things that I had been dreaming about, and though I didn’t feel the urgent need to leave Michigan, after a few months I knew I was beginning to settle for something less than I wanted.  Detroit would never be New York City – not even close.

I had only visited New York City for four days on that first trip, but the memory of it lingered, and I wanted to know more.  I’d scour the shelves in libraries and bookstores in search of new guide books, photography collections, or even novels set in New York.  A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Invisible Man, and even American Psycho found a home on my bookshelves. I rented any movie that even mentioned New York, and I watched Manhattan, Wallstreet, and When Harry Met Sally so many times that it became more economical to buy my own copies than to keep renting them.  I begged a good friend of mine, D. (who lives in the city), to send me anything he could find having to do with New York and he generously fed my crush by supplying photographs that he took as he moved around the city for business and pleasure.  I couldn’t get enough of them.  As the months passed, I found myself lost in D.’s photographs and my own memories of walking on the cobbled streets in SoHo, riding the subway, and peering down alleys as J. and I explored the city.

I’d spent four short days getting acquainted with the city, and now I was dreaming about it like an obsessed lover.  I was falling. I yearned for the city.  I wanted it, and yet I did everything I could to deny that I was practically physically aching to return to it. And as is true of all illicit love affairs, the denial ran deep.  I would tell people that while I loved the history, the buildings, and the culture, I couldn’t really see myself actually living in a concrete jungle.  I would laugh as I reassured others that this was just a phase I was going through.  I wasn’t that invested in it. I could stop any time I wanted.  I wouldn’t actually move there.

Would I?

Maybe?

No, I couldn’t.

In the spring of 2009, I began contemplating what it would mean to actually return to visit New York.  At first it was just a promise of another brief rendezvous.  I would go alone and stay longer – maybe two weeks? As I calculated and recalculated the cost of flights, hotels, and all of the museums and restaurants I’d visit, I realized that two weeks would be expensive and not nearly enough time.  I planned and plotted ways to lower the costs and extend my stay – even just a few extra days – but I knew it wouldn’t satiate the need.  Secretly, I began to fantasize about what it would feel like to pick up and move to New York permanently.

I told no one, and it gave me a delicious thrill when, late at night, I would pull up my web browser and scan the apartment for rent ads in the Times. I dreamed about living in Harlem or Brooklyn or Queens.  When I finally confided in D., a former Midwesterner himself, that I really did want to move to the city, he replied with a matter-of-fact, “Then you should.”

However, when I’d hesitantly tell Michigan-based friends and family members that I wanted to move from Michigan to New York City, most would give me the “why the hell would you want to do that?” look.  I’d listen to their laundry lists of reasons why New York is a “nice place to visit, but not a place you’d want to live,” and logically, I knew they had a point.  I was raised in the suburbs where there was plenty of grass and lots of space.  New York City would be loud and crowded.  The cost of living in Michigan was reasonable and affordable.  Living in New York would cost me an arm and a leg, at the very least.  And as they’d point out, I’d be so far away – from them.  I’d acknowledge their concerns, but I’d be looking off into the distance, while replying, “There’s just something about it that really appeals to me.  I love it.”

They would remind me (in their practical, grown-up voices) that sometimes love is just not enough, and I’d dutifully nod as I reminded myself that a one-sided love affair wasn’t logical, rational, or realistic. I was basing my love on one short visit, and a collection of someone else’s photographs. I told myself that it was ridiculous to want to move to an unknown city where I’d be utterly alone.  I’d be thousands of miles away from my family and friends. I had no job or apartment, and I definitely didn’t have enough of a savings account to get me through the rough times.  Yet, every day I would sign on to the New York Times site, devour the regional news and follow it with a chaser of the Times Real Estate section. I couldn’t stay away.  I didn’t want to stay away.  I wanted to get closer; to embrace the city.  I wanted to love the city — and have it love me back.

Then, one night, D. sent me a shot of 42nd Street, and it looked like everything I had ever dreamed New York City would be – bright lights, whirling colors, constant motion. The moment I saw it, I began to sob.  I couldn’t deny it any longer – I was absolutely, totally, head-over-heels in love with New York City.  It wasn’t rational, reasonable, or logical — it was pure visceral emotion.  That night I decided that no matter what anyone said, I was going to find a way to move to New York.  I was determined that nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to weaken my resolve.  We would elope if we had to.  I would throw my suitcase out my bedroom window, shimmy down the drain pipe, hop into the waiting car and head out to meet the city!  I would do it, and nobody could stop me!

The next morning, I woke up and realized that my idea didn’t make any sense.  Kicking common sense to the curb and running off to live in New York City without a well-defined plan might be romantic and exciting to dream about, but in the end it was the equivalent of a Vegas wedding between two tipsy strangers.  I was being irrational and overly emotional.  I needed to grow up and be more practical about my decisions.  I’d been swept up in the moment and the emotion, but it was a love affair that would only end up breaking my heart — and, most likely, my bank account.

I began to build new walls of denial as I constructed yet another logical and rational defense, but all the while I could feel the pull of the city – stronger this time.

Soon I was back in the bookstores, renting movies, and begging D. to take more pictures. I wanted – no, I needed – to know what the city was doing, so I signed up to receive updates from Daily Candy, which told me about new museum exhibits, concerts, restaurants, and sales.  I combed the announcements, located everything on a subway map I’d kept from the trip, and then pestered D. to go and check out the things that I thought were interesting.  He was incredibly patient, and compromised by sending me pictures of things he was interested in, but basically told me that no human could keep up with my demand for information – at least not one who had a job.  And while he was happy to provide photos for me, he wasn’t interested in becoming the middle man in this growing affair, and I had to find other ways to connect.

Late one night last winter, I found myself exploring the streets of Chelsea using Google Earth.  I wanted to know everything there was to know about the streets of New York. I wanted to see them, to learn them and feel them.  When I finally looked up at the clock and realized that I’d been “walking” the streets for four hours, I knew this had become more than just a casual affair.   My cheeks flushed as I finally admitted, to myself, that I was in love.  Admitting that was scary, but sometimes love requires a leap of faith, and after all of my hemming and hawing, I was finally ready jump.  I would find a way to move to New York City – by any means necessary.

So, here I am and the fall of 2010 is on it’s way.  I have acknowledged that I love New York City in a way that transcends rationality and reason, and that I am ready to make a commitment.  However, I need a plan. Where do I want to live? Where can I afford to live?  What will I do for work? Where will I shop?  Is it safe?  Are New Yorkers really that rude? Will I be as in love with the city when I am living in it or will I find that I’ve made a huge mistake? I have a million questions, and not a lot of answers.

I have no idea how this is going to turn out, all I know is that by January 2012 I plan to be settled in an apartment in New York City.  Stick with me for the next year, and find out how I make my way from Detroit, Michigan to New York City, New York.  I may not know exactly how I’m going to do this, but I do know that I am incredibly motivated, willing to take action and unbelievably stubborn.

Especially now that “I’m in a New York state of mind.”

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