moving to New York…

Last month, I moved to New York City. To a recently minted 25 year old this might seem like a euphemism after an unhealthy consumption of television, cinema and literature glamorizing the life of 20-somethings in this city. I can’t think of myself not knowing about New York—it’s like it’s always on TV, quite literally.
One of my most indispensable memories as a child is that of the twin towers falling twenty years ago. To a five year old, my parents described it as the electricity getting cut off in the States—I used to be terrified of the perpetual cuts as a child in New Delhi. The memory was of course built upon my love for the stories of this city—stories of hope, romance, dancing in Central Park, saying things like Kawfee… sitting at the steps of the Met, hearing every language of the world on the street or telling a cab driver to take me to Myrtle Ave. like in Gossip Girl.

Thats the thing, here I am… I live here now.

Reading moving messages from @maithri.shankar and @suemeeeeeeeee this morning, I realized how grateful I am for the last month. There’s new friends. There’s new dreams. A new bed and a new window to look out of. There’s the constant noise of firetrucks I complain about but then there’s constant buzz in the morning which is more effective than coffee. There’s love and heartbreak; the city fulfills all it’s clichés and then slaps you across your face telling there’s more to me than you think.

Alicia Keys said it right: Now you’re in #newyorkcity