We celebrated our 3rd anniversary of being New Yorkers last week. Or of living in New York anyway. We have lived here longer than we lived in Hawaii, longer than I lived in Provo. My first memories of New York involve carrying all of our stuff up two flights of rickety stairs to our tiny apartment in the middle of the night; the infernal humidity brought on by a fierce rainstorm; returning our rental car and taking the train to Target to get ourselves a fan; our gas not being turned on for over a month; three lost boxes that did, eventually, find their way through the mail to us.
I know, it sounds like a miserable start, and yet I only have fond feelings for those days. A lot has changed since then. We made it through grad school, we got a real job, we moved to a “safer” neighborhood, we had another baby. But a lot has stayed the same. The summer humidity. The winter cold. The walking, carrying, catching (and missing) trains. Every day, despite its sameness, is an adventure. You never know what you will see or hear as you walk down the street. Every person is character. We’ve run probably hundreds of miles around Prospect Park. We’ve played in the Atlantic Ocean. We’ve made some great friends, some of whom we’ve already had to say good-bye to. We’ve picked up furniture off the road, we’ve become obsessed with real estate. We’ve learned the lingo and can sometimes talk back with the best of them. Sometimes I wonder, How do we manage to live here? How would we truly live anywhere else? So, I wouldn’t say we’re real New Yorkers yet, but we’re well on our way.