I’ve had a fair share of identity crises in my life: I’ve been a trend-hopping hipster, an island party boy socialite, a songwriting school dropout, and a wannabe Instagram travel blogger. Clearly, I was lost and unsure of myself for a long time, because I am none of those things. But if there’s one thing that I’ve always known about myself, it’s that I love New York. Though, it’s not an ordinary love. I love New York in a very different way than I love other cities, and while I’ve traveled all over the world, I’ve never found another place like her.
I love New York like an old photo album, like the words to my favorite songs; like a hand-written letter from an old friend. New York gives me that sense of belonging that I don’t feel anywhere else. She understands me more than any person I know. She energizes me more than the Sun. She makes me believe in myself more than I ever have. It has always been my dream to call her home, and in May of this year, that dream came true.
I moved to New York City with only a few weeks left of Spring. The air was soft and light, and the city was alive again after the brutal winter I’d watched so many videos of. You could see it in the faces of children eagerly running to the swings in the Village playgrounds; their days of being locked up behind frosted windows were finally over. Wide-eyed pedestrians shed their winter furs and traded them in for light rain jackets. I should’ve taken the hint sooner – a rain jacket is not just a simple fashion accessory, but a crucial closet piece, too. Some of us just learn the hard way…
There was something oddly magical about getting caught in my first city rainstorm. I don’t know if I’ll ever forget it. The night was chilly and I still had twenty blocks to cross before I’d reach my West Village studio. I can still see my friend Faith rolling her eyes at me for refusing to take the subway. She didn’t know that walking those nearly empty streets late at night made me feel so alive. Just as she tucked below the city streets and I began my journey home, it started pouring. I was furious, but I wasn’t going to let her be right. Every drop of rain that pelted my face stung like ice, but somehow felt good; a sensation you only know from experience. Spring rain is different than any other rain.
With each dash between scattered store awnings, I couldn’t help but feel like I was in the middle of some kind of mandatory initiation into my new life – the city life. I kept thinking about calling an Uber or heading down to the subway every time I’d picture Faith’s rolling eyes, but I urged myself that if I couldn’t walk home in the rain, then I didn’t really belong in New York at all. The song “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac shuffled into play at just the right time that night. Stevie Nick’s haunting vocals echoed in my head. But then it happened, she crooned out the words I’d heard so many times, “When the rain washes you clean you’ll know,” but that night, those words made more sense than they ever had before.
I was being washed clean by that New York rain and for the first time, I knew.
This was new life like Spring blooming inside of me.
This was New York.
Nate in New York 