some thoughts on new york

after 12 days living here

nikhil

Feb 27, 2025

People are extraordinary; of course they are.
My roommate in my subleased apartment lives a cultured life of playing and teaching piano, working in the arts, reading important books like Anna Karenina, and going to the New York Philharmonic. This is a life I dream of, even though it’s probably not one I would ever live, thanks to my phone addiction and penchant for getting distracted.
I meet new people who understand my zeal for visual art. I wax poetic about things that my friends in SF wouldn’t be interested in. Everyone I talk to seems to have opinions about the best independent art cinema in the city. I need to be watching more arthouse films.
I notice how many people are reading books on the subway, and I feel compelled to pull my own book out of my bag.
I am made to feel welcome by everyone that I meet. They all seem to love New York and seem excited to be able to share their love of the city with a newcomer, excited that another person gets to experience what they love so much.
I don’t feel pretentious here. Among the people I meet, my interests are normal.
There aren’t enough days in a week for all of the people I want to see, all the things I want to do. I am prioritizing people over places right now, letting myself uncover destinations as I try to find my community here. There are only so many opportunities for dinners and coffees, there are always more people to see, and I wonder how one could possibly prioritize them all.
When I was leaving San Francisco, every spot in the city rang with history and feeling. This is what makes a place feel like home — a deep history with a place that turns into familiarity. People that you share a long history with feel like home as well.
I keep whispering to myself I live in New York, like an affirmation that keeps it real. If I forget to, I imagine that I will wake up somewhere else entirely, my time here just a dream.
Lenin once said, “There are decades where nothing happens; and there are weeks where decades happen.” I don’t think he was talking about a twentysomething having a good time after moving to a different city, but it feels relevant. So much has happened in the last week and a half.
I already have history in this city, in this neighborhood. I have such warm memories of so many things that have happened in my short visits here over the years: the restaurant where we got gelato to eat in the park and watch the fireflies last summer, the walk by the water with my family, the counter serve Indian deli that I always come back to.
When I meet with my friends from college, they tell me stories about the weirdest people they’ve met here. I listen with my mouth agape. History abounds.
I feel like a child, in a good way. I burst with wonder over the smallest things (the buses have USB chargers!), and I am taking lots of naps. Everything seems novel and exciting.
I’m learning to have new problems that I’ve never had before.
My apartment being on the fifth floor seemed like less of an issue before I saw how steep the stairs were. They’re not a big deal right now. But when most of my life was packed into two bags on the bottom floor of the building, it was a different story.
This building is nearly 200 years old, and I’m learning how radiators work. They are loud and it’s always too hot inside. Opening the window doesn’t help as much as you’d want it to, even when it’s freezing outside.
I thought I knew cold. I had taken trips in December to Europe, I had spent a weekend in February in Detroit. I did not know cold. Not like this, the wind cutting at every square inch of exposed flesh, scarf somehow unable to ever fully cover enough. Last week was a brutal scene, where the wind chill hovered around 3 degrees Fahrenheit. Weather forecasts look different to me now.
Anything over 30 degrees feels like a tropical adventure. The last few days have been sunny with temperatures in the 40s, and I don’t remember any weather feeling more pleasant than this. These 40-degree days feel like 75-degree days in San Francisco, 80-degree days in Cabo. I have changed already.
I’m happy I’m here. I hope it stays this way. And even though it won’t, I want it to stay this way for as long as possible. I want to stay excited to be here, as I make more personal history, as I find my routines, as I find my place in the big city.

💧 Drops of the Week 💧

ALBUM - Endlessness by Nala Sinephro - albums to zone out to
POEM - “Dead Butterfly” by Ellen Bass - Was this her own too-fragile baby / that had lived—so briefly—in its glassed world?