Nothing New and Yet It’s All New

I left Jen’s apartment on 172^nd street at 7:30 to go for a morning jog in Washington Heights. I ran along Riverside drive and through Hudson Heights up and down hills I didn’t know even existed in NYC. Later, I walked across town on 125^th street through Harlem to catch the Metro North train out of the city to visit a friend that moved to the “country,” just north of the city along the Hudson. 
 

What struck me the most about the morning were not the views of parts of the city I hadn’t seen before, but the smells. As I hit the pavement on 172^nd and made the right onto Fort Washington, I could have closed my eyes and known that Thursday must be trash pick up day. The heat already reaching 80 degrees at 7 am hitting the piles of trash encased in plastic bags on the sidewalk, warming up the contents, sending the aroma wafting into the air, as they awaited the inevitable trip to their final resting place in New Jersey’s finest landfills. 

Later, as I walked east on 125^th street through Harlem past the Apollo, past the group of veterans in full navy attire, I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply. Smells of sausage sizzling in oil escaped the greasy spoon diner to my left, and mixed together with the sweetness of Shea butter and Nag Chompa being sold from the stand on the sidewalk, coupled with the ever present sweet smell of trash cooking inside their plastic bag homes. 

There is something so interesting about walking in cities. Especially big cities like NY. Each neighborhood melding into the next. Last night Jen and I met up at 63^rd and Amsterdam at 5:30 in the afternoon after I had spent the day reminiscing with my childhood and college friends. 

It was cloudy, but still hot, so we decided to walk north on Amsterdam while we figured out what to do with our afternoon. We strolled passed gazillions of tourists taking pictures and outdoor cafes, their awnings covering the patrons, chalkboard signs beckoning us to eat mussels in rosemary tarragon sauce. We stopped at a non descript sports bar for a beer, and looked on, as the 28 year old hipster bartender flirted with the young, blonde woman reading a book at the bar, golf, and tennis football showing on the plethora of tvs around the dimly lit bar. 

After one, we continued on through the Upper West Side, the occasional old black lady pulling her grocery wagon juxtaposed next to the team of 20 young, white men finishing their soccer game in the park, all in matching tshirts hungry for their order of 15 wings at the “Dive Bar” on the corner of 96^th and Amsterdam, nothing divey about it - except the name. 

At 106^th and Broadway, as the Upper west side begins to give way to Morningside Heights, students mix with financial venture capitalists, and markets lure you in with colorful displays of fresh fruit. Plastic containers neatly packed with organic, fair trade chocolates for the taking, along side Chobani yogurt of every flavor imaginable. There our stop was a beer hall, the ABVs listed neatly next to each variety, the descriptions of porters with deep chocolate overtones or IPAs with hints of lemon or grapefruit; TVs lining the wall above the bar giving way to football and baseball, both together indicating that fall had indeed arrived. 

Ready to venture back out to the street, we continued on up into Harlem and for many, many blocks, there were no more places to stop at 8:00 on a Thursday night. The stores we did passé had their gates drawn securely down, the only movement the 1 train coming up above ground and rumbling past us, as we meandered through the dark night. 

For more than 30 blocks we walked. Passed Jumbo 99cent stores, passed the Diamond pawn shop, passed a check cashing place, and some small Latino markets, all closed for the night. Then out of nowhere, sticking out like a sore thumb, next to the Hookah Tobacco, “The Draft House.” A light skinned black man with a black knit cap, black glasses, and a neatly manicured beard asked us for IDs and whisked us into a world of all European craft beers and a menu filled with $15 appetizers and eclectic patrons. The sink in the bathroom poured out water from a fountain like faucet into a deep basin and upon inquiry we discovered that the location had opened only 3 months earlier. The bouncer, Francisco, or Paco – Paquito – he later told us grew up on 142^nd in this neighborhood after he had moved here from Mexico. His father a Dominican baseball player, his mother a waitress from Mexico – they had met in Texas and fallen in love – over 30 years earlier. He told us he had gone to school in the neighborhood, but that he hadn’t finished. That school hadn’t been for him. That he wished school was just more. . . he trailed off and smiled wistfully before adding, that he hoped it was more for his 7 year old sister. We probed about the opening of the Draft House, about how he felt about such gentrification, but Paquito just shrugged, said he liked working at a place so close to his home, and that he didn’t understand what we were asking him. 

We bid our good byes and wandered back out into the night – just 30 more blocks to go in the beginnings of a drizzle. We lamented our shoe choice – she in loafers and I in flip flops, but now we had to make it – we were so very close. We strolled through Washington Heights, passed the barber shops on Broadway and 160^th – card tables set up outside of them – groups of 6 -10 men – likely Dominican - playing dominoes on the street, clips of conversation in Spanish floating into the night. We walked passed a group of teens dancing samba on the sidewalk. Passed the umpteenth McDonalds serving more than 99 Billions, passed yet another Dunkin Donuts displaying Boston Creams and Coffee regulars, passed the Claudia’s Fashion selling this season’s discount summer dresses and el Pitallito restaurant tempting us with their nachos con chorizo and fruit stands, mangos, peaches, nectarines and avocados arranged artistically in the drizzly night. 

We arrived at 172^nd, tired but satisfied. But before walking the 5 floors up to call it a night, we did what any self respecting wanderer of the New York night would do . . .we grabbed a slice. Dripping with grease and cheese and just the right amount of tangy sweetness in the sauce. 

Our feet on fire and our bellies full, we slept like the dead, despite the heat, the sound of the fan lulling us into sleep.

You Should Be Excited!

People keep asking me if I am excited. People keep telling me that I should be excited, “Oh my god! You have a year off! You are sooo lucky! You must be soooooo excited. I wish I had the year off."

Wanna hear the thing about it? I am not sure that I am. 

I have been feeling something lately though – a weird feeling. A sort of nagging. I keep thinking, "What is that feeling? And then this week, finally, sitting staring at the Pacific Ocean in PB, I figured it out. It’s a feeling of missing out. 

Can you even have FOMO for the start of the school year? That doesn't even make sense given that I am on a sabbatical. Though those that know me are likely not that surprised.

Yet, nevertheless it’s true. I feel sad that I am not writing a letter to staff, that I am not the one looking for a new ELA teacher for 8^th grade  and a literacy coach or planning what we’ll do for R’s memorial. Pretty narcissistic I know. But hey, I call it as I see it.

I feel sad and maybe a little guilty. It feels so privileged to have the  year off. Self indulgent and privileged. I know guilt is overrated and not that productive. But I can't help it, I'm Jewish. Feeling guilty is like breathing. 

Here are some things I know:

1. I am not excited,  yet people want me to be, so sometimes I say I am.

2. A year is a long time.

3. At the same time, a year is a blip in time. 

4. It is hard for me to not check my work email or do work related things or over commit myself.

5. I feel like I should have to do a school project or a volunteer stint somewhere or just not be allowed to visit anyone I know or anywhere I’ve already been.

6. It is strange to not have to be somewhere. 

7. It is even stranger, and somewhat awkward, to not have to be responsible for anyone. 
8. I wonder if I will still be a question mark after this year is over.

9. I wonder how this year will change me or my life. 

10. I worry it won't. 

11. I worry it will.  

And so it begins – as most things do, with a bit of mixed emotions, trepidation, a lot of questions and maybe just a little bit of excitement.