Me and My City: A Tragic Love Story

Dear NYC: Can we please stay friends?

I’m writing this from an Amtrak train—the first I’ve been on since before the pandemic. Before then, I rode the train with eager regularity. When I was writing Fabulous Vegan, I even took myself on a self-imposed writing retreat taking the shape of a train trip across the US. And when Moore and I got married, our iconic honeymoon was a trip throughout the UK by train.

I know trains—their routes, their vegan-friendly menus, and their vibes—almost as intimately as I know the city, my city. The place where I belong. The place I always have. The place I am headed now, as I type these words and try to figure out the answer to a very big conundrum in my life: What role does it have for me now that I have abandoned it without much thought to the consequences? Now that I have officially left it behind for five years of travel and soul-seeking that shifted my priorities in ways I could never have imagined? And now that I am in contract for a house in a small city that takes seven life-changing hours to reach on Amtrak?

For my entire life, “the city” meant New York City.

Growing up in New Jersey, I’d cut school to go to the city. After I left New Jersey to go to college, I briefly moved to Philly (not “the city,” though a lovely place in its own right … but not the city). I left Philly halfway through college to transfer to another school in the city, finally. It was 1999 and I was a month shy of my twentieth birthday. I like to say I lived there since I was a teenager—which, by a very small margin, I was.

But by the time my late stepfather Wayne drove me to my new little apartment at the St. George Hotel in Brooklyn Heights (sounds fancy but it was basically student housing for many different schools), I had already spent a significant amount of time there whenever possible: Overstaying my welcome crashing with friends who went to NYU. Taking long day trips to see a couple of shows when I was living in Philly. Taking in the vibe and the magic for as long as I possibly could before boarding the last train of the night. And when the city was finally mine, and Wayne packed my belongings in the car and drove me to the place I had wanted to live ever since I was five years old, tears streamed down my face as the skyline came into view, towering above me and welcoming me home, at last.

Two years later, I watched that same skyline fall down in front of my eyes, as I screamed unrelentingly and tried to reach my mom who was teaching an art class in Perth Amboy. The main office transferred my call immediately and she stayed on with me, her fourth-grade students staring at her, bewildered, as I watched the buildings fall. The security guards ran up and down the hallways of my building yelling, “Close your windows!” because the debris was in such close range. My roommate Jessica came home later that night with shards of glass in her face. We slept with our sneakers on for the next solid week and sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” every night because we were completely traumatized and didn’t know what else to do. My college, which was a few blocks from Ground Zero, became an official triage unit for the recovery efforts, and—much like today—we had to wear masks on our faces everywhere we went. The stench of death and who-knows-what-else was all over everything, particles still flying through the air.

And even though it was by far the most terrifying thing I’ve ever been in close proximity to, looking back, I could not imagine being anywhere else than the city on 9/11. And in the days and weeks and months and years that the city built itself back up, I built myself back up right along with it. I’m not actually sure where the city ended and I began. I’m still not, which might be my entire problem.

From 1999-2016, my feet were firmly planted in various parts of the city: Brooklyn Heights. Washington Heights. Hudson Heights. Soho. Park Slope. And Inwood. Though I moved around quite often, I was mostly in that adorable tiny little apartment in Soho where I lived with my then-partner and our truly incredible pit bull, Rose, who left us this past December.

Throughout those 17 years, I saw hundreds of Broadway and Off-Broadway shows, held jobs ranging from nanny for some Upper East Side kiddos in my twenties to Executive Director of a nonprofit I co-founded in my thirties. Everywhere I visited that wasn’t the city felt off-center to me, and I’d measure the distance to literally everything by how far it was from lower Manhattan. Even when I found other cities that I adored, the real question became whether that place was easily accessible to New York. Nothing else mattered; I was Johnny One-Note.

It was when my first marriage was ending that I allowed my obsession with New York City to be overridden by the grief and confusion I had at the time. When I was offered a spectacular job as the Senior Editor of VegNews—a job that required me to be full-time clear across the country in Santa Cruz, California—oddly, I just … went. In retrospect, though I am so grateful for my time in-house at VegNews because it was the biggest career step I’d taken, I am also quite perplexed by how easily and thoughtlessly I abandoned all that I knew. I think I must have been walking through life like I was in some kind of a freak-out-induced haze, not even considering the long-term effects of making this choice. And though obviously it was a choice, at the time, I don’t think I really considered it anything but pushing pause on the city I loved. I figured I’d travel back there regularly (and I did … sometimes as often as every 4-6 weeks). And though I didn’t exactly have an exit strategy, I knew that at some point I’d be back on my old stomping ground, and real life would carry on. What I didn’t plan for was how much my needs and life circumstances would pivot.

After getting my yayas out in Santa Cruz—a beachside city two hours outside of San Francisco—the editorial office at VegNews moved to Los Angeles at my and another editor’s urging. It made total sense for the magazine to have its editorial headquarters in LA, which is arguably the vegan center of the universe. So a friend of mine drove the UHaul, and my cat Stella meowed the whole seven hours downstate.

Hollywood, my first of three apartments in which I’d reside in LA, was, I figured, a good stopover before heading back to the city. Like the city, Hollywood was a place people moved to be someone. The drive and ambition were palpable, and I thrived off of it. As someone with way more ambition than is right for one person to have (it’s basically a sickness unless I actively manage it), spending time in places full of go-getters is paramount for me. I was also dating Moore by this point, and I eventually moved in with her to her small carriage house in Koreatown, a standalone one-bedroom behind a group of twenty-something dudes who hoarded city bikes and did shirtless push-ups in our shared driveway. They kept lawn furniture on their front lawn and blasted pornos from their open windows late into the night.

And so we eventually leveled up and moved again, to West Hollywood this time—the middle of the gayborhood, where drag queens regularly sashayed down Santa Monica Boulevard and there were three vegan-friendly pizza places within walking distance of our apartment. I loved West Hollywood in a giant way, but mostly because it was the closest vibe to NYC I had experienced ever since I carelessly pushed pause.

When I’d go back and visit New York, as soon as I arrived, I would feel lit up again—like I was being reunited with a long-lost lover.

Indeed, we’d just pick up where we left off. I saw my city friends with practically the same regularity as I had when I was still living there. To them, I might as well still have been Jasmin from downtown, not Jasmin from a five-hour Jet Blue flight away. We’d see shows, eat at the latest vegan restaurant, catch up over the vegan sandals section of MooShoes. It was all just, normal. The subway map was forever embedded in my brain and, even though I’d left years prior, I could make my way around in my sleep. And each time I’d leave, I’d push pause again, figuring I’d be back to stay at some point.

And then, the world stopped. The pandemic hit, my neighborhood in WeHo was literally boarded up thanks to rioters, and—wearing two masks, a full-face visor, and gloves—I joined the BLM protests that were a daily occurrence for a while there. Moore and I, now married and the human companions to four littles, were suddenly both working from our one-bedroom. After the horrific murder of George Floyd, our neighborhood had 4pm curfews, forcing us to walk the dogs in the back of our building, on the pavement, right by the giant trash receptacle. I remember being terrified, much like I was back in 2001 on that fateful day. We had a getaway car packed and I had some old Xanax pills in my desk drawer. Life was suddenly ridiculous.

For the first time ever, I felt a distance from the city that I hadn’t known before. Just as I had been so grateful, in an odd way, to have been down there when the World Trade Center was attacked, I wanted to be there during this pandemic; it felt stifling and wrong to be anywhere else. Like the rest of the world, I watched videos of the entire city erupting in applause each evening at 7pm, a collective and powerful thank you to the brave front-line workers. I clapped too, tears streaming down my face because I knew now that I had abandoned my city, the city, the only city. I was no longer part of it. Start spreading the news.

Meanwhile, on the west coast, my living situation was becoming more and more untenable. We were feeling cramped in our apartment, and our dining room table was overtaken with Moore’s work. I was constantly in the background of her Zoom calls, and her laptop was boosted up by a pile of board games. We clearly had different comfort levels around communal areas like the laundry room than our carefree neighbors, and everything we did basically felt like we were going to die. I still ached for my city, but I knew that if we moved back there, the fear of contaminated communal spaces would be elevated even more—and Moore and I would hardly be upgrading to having enough space from which to work. Plus, four animals (three of whom are dogs) in the city is a lot, especially when they are reactive, as the little darlings are.

And yet, it became obvious that we needed to move somewhere else. Since Moore’s job became remote and mine always was, we were no longer tied to LA. We always figured we’d eventually make our way back to the east coast (Moore is originally from DC), and suddenly, this seemed like the right moment. So we packed our things, rented an RV(egan), and got ourselves and our fur family across the country as safely and swiftly as we could. My sweet Rose Dog was still around at this point, though it was obvious it wouldn’t be for much longer. So Moore and I decided we’d find a place to land for now, and we’d spend the rest of Rose’s days nearby. Though not the city, we found a rental that accepted animal companions, just a couple hours north of the city, not far from Albany. And we went.

It is now the day after my Amtrak trip down to the city.

I am sitting in my room on the 28th floor of my hotel, thanking my lucky stars that hotel prices are still alarmingly low. The skyline is splayed out before me, the Empire State Building towering above me. Last night, with all the lights turned off around me, it shone brightly into my room, staring down at me like a great matriarch who knows something I don’t.

Being here after all this time is a familiar relief just as much as it is a painful jolt. The 17 years when I called the city my home—digging in my heels and repeatedly saying that I will never leave—feel like a momentary blur. The thousands of memories—walking down to Chinatown on a Sunday morning for cherries and kumquats; planning my trips to midtown with the knowhow of a savvy New Yorker, knowing which streets to take to avoid the worst of the pre-theater foot traffic; jogging along the Hudson River walkway morning after morning; meandering through Ft. Tryon Park and losing myself to the power of The Cloisters—become just one fuzzy moment.

And here I am: No longer a teen sitting in my suburban New Jersey bedroom with dreams and schemes of living in the city as soon as possible. Now in my forties, I’m trying to figure out what’s next. Is visiting the city with regularity enough to give me my fill of the heartbeat, the energy, the lifeline? Does the reality that my life and needs have shifted mean that I have somehow failed, unable to see through the lifelong race to the finish? Is what I have enough? Am I enough this way?

These questions haunt and plague me, even as I experience a completely separate, adjacent reality. Just as much as I long for the city to embrace me as its own, despite the fact that I snuck away in the night, I also long to begin fresh. I crave a place in which I can start from scratch, discovering its bends and quirks and hideaways. As hack as it sounds, since the pandemic started—since Moore and I had a dining-room-turned-office, a newfound hostility toward our self-involved neighbors, and a cartoon-like getaway car—we value space in a way that the city cannot provide. In order to succeed in our relationship and our careers, we desperately need that space (we are loud talkers, for one). And as much as it breaks my heart to say this, long-term projections for climate change are dismal at best for NYC. Moving to a place with good long-term projections for the climate is a core value for us, as is having enough money left after a purchase to retrofit our home to be net-zero—geothermal, solar, insulation, triple-pane windows, eventually a house battery.

And just as the city offers a vibrant queer culture and endless selection of vegan food, if I’m going to be radically honest with myself, so do other cities. Not even remotely in the same way, with the same magnitude and attitude—but nonetheless, these are not perks unique to New York. Though the particular soul-feeding vibe of the city is not replicable, not anywhere, other aspects of it are. The quality of life that I need now can be met elsewhere, in a way that allows me to feel safer in the long-term, both economically and environmentally.

To be real, I have fallen in love with Rochester, a small-but-happening city way closer to Toronto than to New York. It checks those boxes for me: queer-friendly, vegan-friendly, public transit-friendly, and totally beautiful. It has a stunning beach and several pockets of downtown vibes that are full of bars, cafes, independently owned shops, and fascinating museums. And Moore and I found a house there on a crescent street in walking distance to all the things we want and need (not to mention the gravesites of Susan B. Anthony and Frederick Douglas). We are in contract, and we are in love.

And yet, I cannot reconcile this piece of me that feels most like my authentic self when I’m in Manhattan. This part of me that feels I belong in the city like nowhere else. This part of me that always knew, before I could even articulate it, that I could thrive in this urban jungle.

But now I’m just a visitor here, and the FOMO is real.

I am thrilled to tears about my next phase, but I cannot help but feel I’m letting down my former self, the one who figured that NYC is the only place where you can really make it. I truly cannot figure out if she was right, or if it was all a part of a giant story I created because I needed an anchor as big and unbending as New York. Everything I’ve done and everywhere I’ve traveled has been in relation to this city. It was the middle of the compass, the center of the universe. As long as I knew how to find it, I knew how to find myself.

As I leave a trail of breadcrumbs—I WAS HERE!—I also must let go of preconceived ideas of what it means to be home. The city and I are redefining our relationship, I suppose. But then again, perhaps this is what it always was. I needed it then, with an intensity I don’t require anymore. Perhaps my anchor has shifted—not from one city to another, but rather, maybe my anchor is finally internal. Maybe the through-line is indeed a New York state of mind, regardless of where I happen to be hanging my hat.  

And so I conclude this essay as swiftly as I conclude my three-day jaunt down to Manhattan to see my friends, eat the food, drink the drinks, sip the coffees, meander through the museums, soak up the city for all its worth—which, to me, is …

Everything? Is it everything? Or is it just a place I love that loved me back that will always be just a train ride away. And if I don’t yet know if that’s enough (which I don’t), I can work on finding peace with the not knowing. That is the great life lesson I’m learning these days: that even when you make one choice over another—such as the choice to not have kids, or the choice to buy a house in a really cool place that’s seven whole hours away from Manhattan—the lingering bits that make you doubt your decision are allowed to linger. Coming to peace with a decision does not always mean being resolute. The pull might still be there, and in this case, perhaps I need it to be. And not to get too self-analytical, but it’s possible that the pull itself is actually my anchor.  

I’ll re-gather my belongings into my weekend bag and I’ll check out of my hotel. I’ll pick up some bagels on the way back to Penn Station. Once on the train, I’ll try my best to get a window seat so I can watch the Hudson River flow past me as I make my way back upstate. Our moving boxes probably arrived already; I can’t believe I have to help pack my household yet again! There is a lot to get done this summer, and by the end of it, we’ll be moved into our new little house on that crescent street in that place where I’m already making new friends and reconnecting with old ones. It will be my home now, my present and my future. My Rochester, the City of Lilacs, where I will have holidays and adventures and structure and peace and creativity and love. And where I will belong.

All the while, I will know that seven hours away on the train you can catch downtown, another place is thriving. A place I always figured I’d be forever. It was there for me when I needed it, and I will continue to find it in those moments I need it again.

The city. My city. Where my dreams were realized and my days were numbered.