Chances Are

I wrote this piece shortly after I moved to New York. I’ve updated and edited it countless times over the years and here’s the most recent iteration sharing the long journey to calling the city home. All good things take time, or so they say….

 

“I’m going to live here one day,” I announced, stepping off the Bieber Bus, overwhelmed and smitten with a city larger than life.

I can visualize my first trip to New York as if it happened last year. How I felt or knew that I wanted to live in the city within moments of arrival, I couldn’t say. But I knew. Seeing the original production of  A Chorus Line helped too, even though my mom covered my ears for half the show.

That first visit to New York City was in the summer of 1979 when I made the trip with my mother and a group of  young, aspiring dancers. We attended a convention at the Doral Inn on Lexington between 49th and 50th Streets with classes in ballet, tap, jazz, modern, and more. During that intense week of training, I got my introduction to the Big Apple and all the city had to offer. I was learning dance by day and exploring NYC by night. It was the best of two worlds and the greatest education I could’ve asked for, especially coming from a small city and a sheltered childhood. 

That trip to New York in 1979 would be the first of many I would take over the next several years.

A crime-ridden city

Forty-plus years ago, the streets of NYC were dark and dirty. Crime was as regular as traffic, so riding the subway after dark wasn’t advised, especially as a woman traveling alone.  Cabs were cheap. Many things were cheap. But rent wasn’t. And certain parts of Manhattan that are now the hippest and priciest were off limits––there were streets that you wouldn’t even drive down, let alone walk on. 

And yet, I loved the city.  As young as I was, my gut told me New York was a unique place––like no other in the world. For me, it was the greatest place I could ever imagine. And so I claimed the city as mine. I vowed that I would one day live here and call New York home.

When I arrived in the filthy, crime-infested Port Authority on that hot summer day, something clicked when I stepped outside. I overlooked the grit and grime, the hookers and pimps. None of that mattered. I saw bright lights. Big buildings. Inspiration. Promise.

At the ballet

Throughout my teen years and also into my young adult years, dance in New York was the love of my life. As corny as it sounds, all the meaningless dates and imaginary boyfriends never cut it. Although I searched, I never found the type of love that lasts a lifetime.

I thought my first true love was classical ballet, but my desire to dance in the ballet was in New York City. In the early 1980s, I made as many trips to the city as my parents would allow and could afford. I took dance classes; walked the streets; rode the bus; ate in diners. At only 14 years old, I felt like a New Yorker, or at least a wanna-be.

I attempted to move to the city more than once, but my dream of living in the city was crushed each time. The first was at the age of 15. My parents refused to let me move to New York to attend the High School of Performing Arts. I could’ve been a dance major. Maybe I wouldn’t have been accepted, but I could’ve give it my best shot. I guess I watched the movie Fame too many times.

My first apartment

Another opportunity came was when I was almost 19. I remember thinking that I’d finally done it. I managed to find a sublet on the Upper East Side through my childhood friend Lees, who’s also a dancer.  Everything sounded perfect, and the price was right at $700 per month. I could surely swing $350 a month with a roommate if I had a part-time job.

I packed everything I could fit into an oversized suitcase and boarded the Bieber Bus in Reading, Pennsylvania. Three hours later with all of my belongings in tow, I landed at the Port Authority again. I stepped off the bus, gathered my bags and made my way to Ninth Avenue and hailed a cab. I was on my way to my first New York apartment, even if it was a sublet. I exited the cab and took a look at the building. It was nothing special, but so what? It was an apartment in Manhattan.

As I unlocked the door and entered the large one-bedroom flat, disappointment struck again. The apartment was filthy. Not dirty, but foul. Unlivable. Among the squalor, a scrawny house cat was prowling around, hunting for its next meal.

I refused to shower in the mold-infested tub and slept with my head on the wooden table in the kitchen that night. I couldn’t bear to touch the rusty bed with a stain-covered mattress, let alone sleep in it. A large Upper East Side one-bedroom at $700 a month sounded too good to be true, and it was. I scoured the city that day, looking for another place to stay but had no luck.

Stiff and exhausted, I awoke the next morning and lugged my suitcase back to the Port Authority, catching the first coach home to Reading. I cried the entire trip and buried my love for New York. I couldn’t bring myself to try again. I was crushed.

Moving on

Then about a year or so later, I got a call from a fellow dancer, friend, and potential roommate. She’d found an apartment.  I had another chance to move to the city. I could pack my bags and try again. But I chose not to. The last experience had left a bad taste in my mouth. I felt unsettled, angry, and disappointed. Rather than pursue my dream of living in New York, I wanted to stay in Pennsylvania with my friends and minimum-wage job. I felt like a grownup and I liked that feeling. At that point, I knew I’d given up on New York, and I didn’t return for seven years. Just like a dead-end relationship, I thought New York and I were over for good.

And so, I moved on. I relocated to Philadelphia and attended art school for several years. After graduation and a brief stint back home in Pennsylvania, I considered giving New York City another shot, but something stopped me. Perhaps I couldn’t bear the rejection again. Or, maybe it was my acceptance that some things are not meant to be.

A few years passed, and in 1995, I had an opportunity to migrate to the South, and Atlanta became my home for 12 years. I accomplished all that is expected of a thirty-something.

Dreaming of New York again

Then 9-11 happened, and I was devastated. I remember thinking that this horrible tragedy had happened to my city. New York and I were estranged, and still, my connection was undeniable. I yearned to be there.

In 2002, I came back for the first time in years. After which, I began visiting Manhattan again, and not to my surprise, I fell in love like the first time. I began to dream the dream more than 20 years later.  I looked for every opportunity to travel to the city again and again, sometimes several times in one year. While living in Atlanta, I would kick back on my screened porch, listen to Sinatra and daydream on almost a daily basis. I thought I’d never be in New York permanently, but I could fantasize about what living in the city would be like.

An unexpected change

Then without warning, my life changed course in 2007. I had an unexpected opportunity to relocate to New York. My dream could now become reality. Could I actually leave my familiar life behind and make the move to New York City?

Questions raced through my mind. Could I take this chance once again? My lifestyle would be the opposite of what it had been for years. I’d downsize from my 2,800 square foot Victorian bungalow to a high-rise apartment. I’d ride the subway every day instead of driving. I’d have to give up what I thought was an easier way of living. Could I handle such a drastic change?

While I didn’t know if moving to New York was the right decision, destiny took over. Somehow, all my questions were answered, and all the pieces fell into place.

It was always New York

Forty-plus years after that very first visit to Manhattan, as I walk many of the same streets I walked so many years ago, I pause, and I think. I think about my time here when I was young, inexperienced, and naive. I think about the way the city has changed, mostly for the better. I think about the blood, sweat, and tears, and all the emotion through my years of training and aspiration to dance professionally. I also think that perhaps my love of loves was never really ballet to begin with. What I adored was the adventure and excitement of coming to this city to be a part of it all.  I was a needle in a  haystack, among millions of others.

New York was a place I could be myself, be seen, or disappear. I felt a sense of belonging that I’d never felt before. I felt at home on the streets of New York, the concrete jungle, the cold harsh, rough-and-tumble city. The thrill, energy and beat of New York that no other place can begin to touch were an addiction for me and always will be.

In 2007, I discovered that my home is here, and probably has been since my heart arrived in 1979. It was always New York.

Now that I’m a New Yorker and proud to be one, I have to coin the phrase – “True love never dies.” And after all, any love that enduring deserves another chance.

I moved to New York at age 40, and I can honestly say it was worth all the ups and downs and struggles to get here. But still, I wish I had moved sooner. 🙂

Also, how living in New York prepared me for solo travel.

And why I love living in Manhattan.