We Blog

Yesterday marked the first day of summer here in New York. Yes, summer in April. I say that because spring in New York consists of a few perfect yet scattered days in April and May. I feel like it’s always either really hot or really cold, which is depressing since I much prefer fall and spring to winter and summer. Anyway, summer kicked off yesterday. The Fort Greene flea market reopened for the season, as did Cafe Habana Outpost. And the temp very nearly reached 80 degrees. So, you see, there were many reasons to be out and about.

The parks were overflowing with people in shorts and sundresses. Groups of friends were picnicking. It was a day when that communal spirit of New York was pulsing.

We seized the opportunity to behold the low hum of our first hot afternoon. A few of us met in East River State Park and enjoyed “the beach” (where the East River meets the shores of Williamsburg), the revelers, and the views of Manhattan. Then we had a Mediterranean snack at an indoor-outdoor restaurant in north Williamsburg, before G-training to Long Island city to take in a midtown sunset. The views were spectacular. The sun setting behind the skyline and the reflections on the river were breathtaking. I’ll never get sick of looking at this city’s silhouette.

From there we had a bite to eat before getting a random group of friends, friends of friends, and friends of friends of friends together for drinks at Pacific Standard.

As much as I hate the humidity and summer here in general — I’ll always remember these warm nights in the city, when you don’t need a jacket even when wandering home at 1:30am, when packs of friends roam the city, when there’s always something else to do before calling it a night, when new faces and new places help you find your sixth wind.

I love these long New York days when life flows seamlessly from adventure to adventure.

It started as a dreary morning. I slept til noon on account of a restlessly late night and the unwelcoming spattering of rain outside my bedroom window. But suddenly there were spontaneous plans to attend to. And the A train whisked me off to DUMBO.

I plodded through the rain-drowned cobblestone streets to the flea market. Inside Jenn and I perused colorful trinkets and sampled homemade treats. Then we rounded the corner to Jaques Torres, where we found a surprisingly extensive selection of kosher for Passover artisan chocolate goodies. We left with some dark chocolate covered matzah, and headed across the street to Almondine, where we sat with coffee (and an oatmeal raisin cookie for Jenn).

When we emerged the rain had stopped. We followed the footprints of the Brooklyn Bridge back toward Jenn’s neighborhood, where we whipped up a flourless chocolate cake, and as that cooled, made ourselves a meal of fish (salmon for me, red snapper for Jenn) and citrus salsa (grapefruit, orange, lemon, cilantro, red peppers).

After a few hours of dining and relaxing, we made a couple of phone calls and suddenly had ourselves a Saturday night gathering at a wine bar. Six great Brooklynites, three delicious bottles of red wine, and various nibbles of chocolate matzah, chocolate cake and cheese made for the best possible spontaneous get-together.

I got home 10 hours and four neighborhoods after I embarked on my original mission. The day turned out nothing like I’d imagined. And it was perfect.

Well, it took two years before I really started to miss California.

The offending trip home came at the end of a very long winter, or rather a normal New York winter. I love the cold, but five months without the warm sun was really starting to bum me out.

Cheap airfare and weeks of intensely missing family and friends propelled me back to California for the last week of March. I packed in as much as I could, and it ended up being a tour of Greatest Hits: wine tasting in Sonoma, dinner with Green Valley friends, home-cooked meals, relaxing by the pool in the desert, L.A. friends, family, beach, Peet’s coffee, mani/pedi, sunshine.

It was hard to leave.

When I touched down after a bumpy ride to JFK, I waited 45min in the rain for a cab home — a reckless ride in the torrent that cost me $55. I dragged my suitcase up three flights of creaky, narrow stairs, and tossed it onto the sliver of remaining floorspace in my room.

And then, the unthinkable: What am I doing in New York?

Everyone I love is in California. I miss being there for special occasions, and forgettable ones. I miss the warm sun on my skin year round. I miss the beach. I miss the laid-back California attitude. I miss healthy food, and Mexican food, and convenience. I don’t miss driving.

My first week back after that trip was rough. I threw myself head-first into small things that make me feel safe and at home in New York: meals and drinks out with my co-workers, my gym routine, coffee at my kitchen table, my job. It definitely helped, but I still found myself thinking about California.

Was it finally time to move back?

Then today the sun came out. I’ve spent the last 45 minutes at a cafe near my apartment, sipping my first iced chai of the year. The room is dotted with flickering tea lights and pockets of chatter. I’m looking out onto the street, where packs of winter-worn Brooklynites are dining and strolling outside, enjoying our first warm Sunday. Friends are embracing and kiss-kissing on the sidewalks.

It’s nearly 8pm and the last bits of sunlight aren’t done boasting. The twilight blue meets the tops of the brownstones across the street, and the trees that have been barren since October are starting to reach out in every direction with buds and specks of blooms.

I have to remember that this is my time to thrive in New York, because once I leave I’ll probably never move back. California and all its warmth will wait for me. When I finally get there, will I be homesick for New York?