Kaashif Hajee New York, Interrupted

New York, Interrupted: My Introduction and Farewell to the City

Kaashif Hajee

It was my first time in New York, and the US in general, for that matter. I was a brown Nick Carraway, getting my first taste of the American Dream, only a century later. It was the year 2020. The roaring twenties were back, this time with their own set of promises: discovering a new city, the most iconic and storied of all time, the one most of my favourite movies and TV shows were set in.

On the very long flight there, I imagined what this magical land would look like, the one I had seen extensively through the gaze of motley writers, directors and cinematographers. I imagined a wholesome land of friendships and camaraderie, that of Central Perk and MacLaren’s. I imagined the realm of Blair Waldorf, Carrie Bradshaw, Harvey Specter, Jerry Seinfield… all the Goodfellas. I imagined the territory of Alex the Lion, the king of New York City.

I also imagined the streets of Travis Bickle. The basement of Rupert Pupkin. The psyche of Arthur Fleck. The neighbourhood of the Central Park Five. The romance of Fonny and Tisch. Theirs was a land of alienation and resentment, of injustice and oppression. These worlds had nothing in common, yet were portraits of the same place.

What was it about New York that was so special? I had to find out.

I had to explore all the places these characters inhabited: the Upper East Side, Central Park, Grand Central Station, 5th Ave, the Empire State Building, Harlem, Queens. I had to see everything in flesh and blood, this time through my own lens. I had to see the famous Times Square, the place that’s always under attack in most thrillers and superhero movies. I

had to walk on the Brooklyn Bridge and sneak a peek into Captain Holt’s 99th Precinct.

Finally, my flight landed, turning my imagination into reality. I walked through JFK Airport, carrying the heavy weight of twenty-one years of anticipation. I was going to NYU, the college Payton Hobart settled for, the one where Dr. Ross Gellar taught palaeontology. I couldn’t stop thinking of all the adventures I’d have, the Broadway and Late Night shows I’d watch, the friends I’d make, the women I’d meet: I too was going to meet my Holly, my Sally, somewhere in Soho, or on the Subway. This was it. The time was now.

Unfortunately, my anticipation had to brave the immigration queue before it could be put at rest. I stood for two long hours that felt like days, amidst predominantly East Asian fellow immigrants, most of whom wore surgical masks. “What the fuck are they wearing those for?” I thought to myself. “Why are there so many people? Can’t this move faster already?”

Here’s what happened over the next three hours: I got through the line, was asked one too many questions by a suspicious immigration officer, convinced her that I’m not a threat, collected my baggage, realized that I have to pay for a baggage trolley here, grudgingly paid it, wearily made my way to the exit, and then, finally… I froze. That’s it, I actually froze.

It was January, and such levels of cold were alien to me. I did not know the world was capable of producing them. Within moments, I lost feeling on my nose and ears and fingers. The icy air engulfed me. I was not ready for this. In a fit of desperation, I hailed a yellow cab.

Oh my god, I’m in a yellow New York taxi, I exclaimed to myself, as I cupped my palms over my face and gently blew into them to warm my fingers and nose, taking stock of all my baggage and belongings. “Have you reached home yet?” a text read from my mom all the way in Bombay. “I’m on the way, maa, in a taxi.” I replied. “All good.”

After a few such text messages and small talk with the driver, I arrived at my dorm. 400 Broome St. That was my New York address. That was… home?

The first two days were a complete blur. I remember trying to get to my friend’s building, just 8 minutes away from me, on Lafayette St. I took a while to get ready: checking the temperature, planning the number and intensity of layers accordingly, to beanie or not to beanie? Do I need a scarf? And after I ensured my comfort and warmth, I also had to consider how it actually looks. What if I met my Sally on the way?

In the short walk, I passed through four cafes and five potential places to eat. I tried flagging each of them on my Google Maps, only to be snubbed by an angry walker each time. I even tried to take some boomerangs of cars moving on the streets, only to be yelled at by someone else.

I kept walking — Oh, there’s a Chick-fil-A! I need to eat that fried chicken burger, I thought, as I planned to note that down at the next signal. But there too I learned that only some people follow the signals, and only some of the time? Alright then.

I decided to jaywalk the next one. I almost died. There is an art to jaywalking in New York, I learnt. Check for cars coming, know what signal

will open next, make space for more seasoned New Yorkers to jaywalk ahead of you, and follow their lead: there’s a whole unofficial guidebook. I had much to learn, but for now, I decided, I would seek necessary comfort and familiarity in my friend Laura’s room. I needed it.

It was day four in New York. I still did not know my way to classes: NYU buildings are spread out so you have to figure out where each class is and remember the route to it separately. I missed the coziness and close-knit community of my Abu Dhabi campus.

But I was starting to enjoy walking on the streets. The smell of coffee, cigarettes and marijuana, the sound of many cars moving at the same time in different directions, the unconventional rhythm of the walkers: I was starting to get used to all this.

I reached class early — with a latte in hand, like a New Yorker. “Today we will take the Staten Island Ferry,” said the professor. “Come, let’s go.”

The Staten Island Ferry was very much on my to-do list. But I wasn’t prepared at all. I didn’t have my camera, nor the protective gear I would need for the wind. This would also be the first time I ever rode on the subway: what was I going to do? I didn’t even have a metrocard and was too nervous to tell my seasoned New Yorker classmates.

Cold breeze blew on my face, numbing my nose and ears, as I squinted in the glare of the afternoon sun, my eyes panning through all the marvels of New York City: the famous Statue of Liberty, the iconic Manhattan skyline

and the frothy deep blue water of the Upper Bay. I made it to the Staten Island Ferry. I not so discreetly bought a metrocard, feigned confidence and stuck with the herd of my classmates. It was no big deal. The subway felt oddly familiar. I am a Bombay boy, after all: crowded trains don’t scare me.

On the ferry, our professor made us all read aloud, huddled in a corner, a brilliantly eloquent poem by Walt Whitman, “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.” The poem celebrates the beauty and majesty of the speaker’s surroundings on the ferry, and emphasizes the profound sense of interconnectedness he feels with his fellow passengers. Exuding energy and enthusiasm, the poem is a rousing call to be present and absorb all the glory and wonders of your surroundings.

My co-passengers, however, missed Whitman’s memo. For them, this 25-minute, 5-mile voyage was an utterly banal, quotidien reality. Most of them were seated on the rows of brown wooden benches inside, transfixed on their smartphones, a book, or the newspaper, completely unbothered by their surroundings or each other.

As I looked at the still, scattered heads dispersed across the mostly empty seats, I wondered, at what point does this mesmerizing view get mundane? Perhaps the repetition of an experience everyday gradually erases whatever wonderment comes with it, making it feel more monotonous each time. But would this eventually happen to me as well? Would I too start finding this utterly enchanting and eclectic city boring, only to discover that all the hype was yet another myth of western exceptionalism?

These thoughts quickly wore away.

Over the next few weeks, I ticked off many things from my list: I walked the Brooklyn Bridge with my friends and my camera. I went for brunch at Shopsins. I ate pizza at Grimaldi’s. I got an AMC stubs membership. I had halal cart lunches and bubble tea snacks. I even started listening to music on my wireless earphones and ignoring people who smiled at me. Ok, not really, but I was getting there.

I was finally living my own New York movie, with my own version of Dave Blume’s legendary score playing in the background. Things were perfect. But I had no idea what plot twist the act 1 turn had in store for me.

Monday, March 9—my late grandfather’s birthday. It was 19 degrees celsius in the afternoon. The sun shone on the streets, people populated the parks, a new energy engulfed the atmosphere. T-shirts, shorts and sundresses replaced warm winter woolens. Spring was upon us. Excited, my friends and I had lunch at Washington Square Park, each from a different food truck.

We were going to leave for our Spring Break in Puerto Rico in two days. As we soaked the sun, we discussed many pressing issues: what type of car would we rent there? Can we get a convertible? Will we all go scuba diving? How many of the nights will we spend clubbing?

And amid these questions floated another: is it safe to go? What about the coronavirus?

Ah, the coronavirus. In February, NYU Shanghai students were brought to New York to attend the semester here, because their campus had to be closed. We’re so lucky, we thought. We’re so far away.

But today, it had reached New York City: the first case was reported exactly a week ago. As of now, there were around 60 cases. No need to worry. We could go to Puerto Rico, where there were no cases at all, and come back before things get too crazy. So, we discussed our plans over a good lunch in a populated public park.

That night, my friends cancelled on Puerto Rico. It’s too dangerous to leave New York, they said. What if we can’t come back? They, instead, made a handwritten Spring Break Bucket List for New York to compensate for the tragedy of having to cancel our travel plans. We would go to the Whitney, MoMA, WTC Observatory, and the 9/11 Museum. We would sit on the MET steps and take cute pictures. We would have picnics in Prospect Park, Central Park and Hudson Park. We would go to Spanish Harlem, the Bronx Night Market, Time Out Market. A number of bars were on the list too. And “at least one” jazz club.

The length of the list was meant to sooth the pain. And it did. Nevermind Puerto Rico: life threw a curveball at us, and we must take it in our stride, bounce back and adapt. Spring Break in New York seemed promising. We just had to dodge the coronavirus.

Wednesday, March 11 — I slept in today, chose to order in for lunch. I didn’t step out of my room all day. Every hour, I would refresh my news feed, anxiously looking for updates on numbers or developments. As a social science major committed to social justice issues, checking the news was not new. But my privilege usually insulated me from being directly affected by most catastrophes. Not today.

For the first time, I felt crippling insecurity and vulnerability: Will I be safe here?

I tried to brush off my concerns. I had my first online Zoom classes: two back to back from 3:30 to 9:30 pm. I prepared for them, trying to be as professional as possible. But it was impossible to concentrate. I kept drifting off in the middle of discussions, sometimes to check the news, other times Instagram, Facebook, anything that wasn’t the Zoom screen. It just didn’t feel the same.

One thing was clear: I couldn’t keep doing this. Classes had to resume after the 27th, as the university said they would.

At 10pm, a couple of my friends came over to my room. People had started leaving New York, or at least making plans to. I thought it was ridiculous: there were less than 200 cases at the moment. I could stay here, power through. NYU would keep me safe.

But Trump made a crucial speech that night: “To keep new cases from entering our shores, we will be suspending all travel from Europe to the United States for the next 30 days,” he said. “The new rules will go into effect Friday at midnight.”

This impulsive speech, in typical Trump fashion, sent shockwaves among all of us. Travel bans? Does that mean if things get worse we may not be able to go home?

When I called my parents at 12am, they told me to get on the next flight back to India. In less than 12 hours. But I had to at least bid farewell properly to New York: the city I had watched on screen for years and dreamed of coming to one day, the city I had finally made my home for the past seven weeks.

“I need two days, Dad,” I said. “I have to tie up loose ends and pack up my life here.”

“But what if they stop travel to India? And you get stranded there?” he warned. The idea of this nearly drove me into an anxiety attack. I felt an unbearable heat through my body, as all the worst-case-scenarios played out in my head.

I bought a ticket for Bombay on 14 March, at 21:30. I had less than 48 hours in New York.

Thursday, March 12—After a long night of insomnia, I decided to walk around my block for one of the last times. I wish I could say I began noticing things more clearly than I did before, or that I felt more present. I didn’t. My senses felt hazy.

The only thought I remember, the one nagging me unbearably, was that the soul of New York, its raison d’etre, was at stake. What makes New York New York is the amalgamation of motley people—from different nationalities, cultures and social classes—on the streets, in the subway, around food carts, inside parks and cafes, and all over the city. How could New York survive “social distancing,” when its very essence is the coming together of people?

Today, my friends and I decided to go to the Clinton Street Baking Company for brunch. It seemed the apt choice: some comfort food for the emotional turmoil. The blueberry pancakes and fried chicken and waffle— food that the New York Observer described as “anything but ordinary”— could not slow the spread of the virus, but could certainly numb the pain of it, at least momentarily, especially soaked with rounds of bellinis.

Even as it was kicking us out, New York was here to ensure that the goodbye was memorable and meaningful.

In the evening, a couple of my friends came to my room to keep me company as I packed. Listening to songs like Hallelujah and It’s a Wonderful World, I mourned the loss of all the possibilities 2020 had for me. The chance to wear that new H&M hoodie when I’d visit my friends in Chicago. The opportunity to make a documentary in New York. At NYU Tisch.

How could I move from planning my spring break trip to leaving New York in less than three days? What about the spring break bucket list? Can’t I go back to when the biggest tragedy was losing all the money we spent on Puerto Rico?

I spent the rest of the evening wallowing in my misery, with the help of my next door neighbour Eileen’s cheesecake for companionship.

T minus 24 hours in New York.

Friday, March 13—the last morning I would wake up in New York. But now was not the time for melodrama: I had lunch plans, of course: Murray’s Mac & Cheese, followed by a Levain cookie dipped in obscenely overpriced milk. Maybe we were overdoing the debauchery, I worried. This is a crisis, after all.

But I was the only one with such concerns. Levain Bakery still had an unreasonably long line. Clearly, nothing could stop New Yorkers from getting their favourite cookie.

Many tears and tight hugs later (social distancing be damned), it was time to leave my dorm. To leave New York. I left just as I came seven weeks ago: in a yellow New York taxi, responding to concerned texts from an anxious parent back in Bombay. On the endlessly long flight home, I worried about my future: what would happen to Bombay when the coronavirus hits it? Will I ever come back to New York? When will this nightmare end?

I browsed through the inflight entertainment for distraction, only to be reminded, ever so painfully, that New York is the most iconic and storied city of all time. It would haunt me, through most movies and TV shows I watch. It would soon dominate the news as well.

Home?

Andrew Riad

نم موی يف ناك يتیب مایلاا هب فرتعا ئش

We zay baiti, kalami El masry 7aga A3taraf beh But over the years I lost my mother tongue And with it the foundation Of mon maison et j’aspire à mon ancienne maison Et ma langue maternelle à l’intérieur de la maison.

Embodying the Utopia

Pamela Martinez

Oil on canvas