A New York State of Mind

The alarm went off and I was UP. As in I leaped out of bed, ready to get moving type of up, which was something that I was not used to. I hated mornings, hated alarm clocks and definitely did not get up with any sort of enthusiasm, ever. But today was a different day, a very different day indeed. I changed, brushed my teeth, woke my friend up and headed out with two big 45 pound—but less than 50–rolling suitcases, on our way to the Love Field airport in Dallas, Texas.

I had my friend drive me, having stayed with her those final days in Dallas, at 6:30 in the morning because of my mixed anxiety about airports. I loved them but don’t trust them. I think it was because my dad used to get to airports early, but I was that person who got to airports hours early, and I mean two plus hours before even boarding begins for a flight. Who knew what could happen, and I always thought better safe than sorry.

“Are you nervous?” She asked.

“Nope.” I replied, genuinely believing this.

I didn’t feel flutters in my stomach, but only from my eyelids because I was tired. Though this was the start to an incredible adventure, my dream come true, I still hated mornings. Maybe that was why I wasn’t nervous, but who knew.

“That’s good I guess. I bet you will be once you get settled in.” I nodded, agreeing in my head. I was sure at some point I would get anxiety, or something besides just pure excitement, right? I was not sad leaving Dallas, and had no deep feelings of regret or the thought that I was making a mistake. On the contrary, the only thing I could comprehend at this time of the morning was that I was ready to get out of here.

She dropped me off at the curb, cars piled up, and I stood at the curb with my life in two suitcases for the next year, giving her the biggest grin.

“Bye, I’ll text you from my new European number when I get there.”

I turned, without a second glance, and stepped forward to face the next year of my life with pure crave, curiosity and peace of mind. Not to my surprise, but not regretting getting there early to ease the “what if’s”, I was through checked baggage and security in less than 20 minutes. As I headed to my gate, there was a slight jerk in my body. Was that nerves? Oh man, yes it was. But it was subtle so I could handle it.

This is my adventure, I got this, I thought and a huge smile spread across my face. I was excited just to sleep on the plane, not having a care in the world until I arrived in New York. There I was going to be a little stressed, having those big bags dragging behind me but I’ll worry about that when I get to it. That was the only mind set I could go by right now, or I possibly would start freaking out.

“We are now boarding B 1 through 30 to Nashville.” I think I had been so excited when I found out that my visa went through that I just booked the first flight I saw. I didn’t know I had to change planes to get to New York. Oh well, it happens and I had time. I remembered that moment and how for a bit, I was second guessing my life. Seriously. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do for almost two months, me being on a time crunch and the visa not coming through for 11 1/2 weeks.

I would never forget that day. July 3, 2019 around 9 AM, I got an email saying that my visa has been processed:

“WHAT!” I literally yelled at myself outloud, being home— at my parents house— alone. I checked the status... of course. I have to contact the Swedish embassy to see if it had gotten approved. The knot in my stomach was tightening and I was just about to walk with my aunt and uncle but turned back, the anticipation of just knowing or not knowing, eating at me. I had to know and I had to know now. I had waited almost 12 weeks, so I was not about to wait another hour.

I emailed them, and stared at my phone, refreshing it over and over again. Come on. Come on. THERE. And there it was... every heartache, every pain and every stress that I had been feeling the past month to almost two months disappeared, and it felt like the world had just lifted off my shoulders. It happened. Oh. My. Goodness. It actually got approved. I literally couldn’t believe that my visa got approved. And just like that, I was going to Sweden for a year. I was so excited about that that I basically ended up blinding booking things.

In the end, using points and figuring dates out to fit my schedule and my au pairs schedule, I had paid 900 dollars for a quick weekend trip to New York and then a few days in Stockholm on my own before my so called “job” started.

“Can I sit here?” I asked two nice looking men with a middle seat open only 3 rows back. Because I had to change planes and knowing my anxiety toward missing a flight, I didn’t want to risk waiting forever to get off the plan just for the perfect seat. I could handle the middle seat for a less than two hour flight. Now the flight to Sweden, which was going to be 7 hours and 40 minutes, would be a different story.

They were nice, both of them, don’t get me wrong. But I’m not a talker this early in the morning, and yet there I was holding back my eyelids from closing as a sweet 73 year old man gave me an earful of his adopted kids and somewhat life story of his older years. It was always interesting to me who we end up meeting in this world, and what topics come up. It’s like why that person? Why did I meet them? I understand that it is all relatively random and all but I believe everything happens for a reason.

So there I was talking to a man who had adopted two girls from California, one was 7 and one was 9, because of a mom who had not been in the picture. He was 50 at the time and from the not so few stories he told me about them, it was not only seemingly a trying experience for the family, but it sounded like any other story from parents who had adopted children. Mine included. There he was, telling me that if I were to adopt, I should first know the background of the parents, like if they were alcoholics or drug addicts because of its effects on the kids. And I knew that, of course, but it was interesting him saying that so freely and openly when little did he know that I was adopted too. I had biological parents who abandoned me, and was adopted when I was older.

Listening to him, I wasn’t upset, or mad, because he didn’t say anything mean, but it was a topic that was not all too common and could come with a ton of sensibility if it was said to the wrong person. However, I shrugged it off as he changed subjects, still wanting to just sleep. Only half listening at this point, something else suddenly caught my attention.

“When I retire...” Now what he said after those words I wasn’t as aware of, but that I heard. He had just told me that he was 73 years old and yet now implying he is still working. All I could think about was how sad that was. Sad that in the “great” country of America, this sweet 73 year old man was still working, and it didn’t REALLY sound like he was quitting within the year or relatively soon. Right there caught my attention because I was not going to live that life— he American dream. It is the land of the free; endless options and opportunities, but typically also with a little bit of luck and a whole lot of connections. That was my opinion anyway, but there he was sounding like that was the norm and he couldn’t do anything about it.

I looked at him, and smiled, acknowledging that I was trying to keep up, but thinking that I refused to let that be my norm. Again, I shrugged it off and finally, finally, he stopped talking and let me sleep.

“Maybe you will find love.” The older woman said matter of factly.

“We will see.” I simply replied, but a slight jolt of excitement ran through me. There I was, on my next flight out to New York City, and again, sitting between two people in the third row back talking about our destinations. This time I was more awake and the two between me were an elderly lady with a lot of spunk and a young looking middle aged man with a happy and genuine personality.

“I was going to say you are young so this is definitely the best time to do this.” The man added, finding out later his name was Tim. The older woman and her husband lived on staton island and the man was a consultant for businesses and traveled all over for work.

“That is something I think I would love. Talking to people, making sure things get done and traveling.” I half joked to him, but his eyes showed that he was intrigued.

“I would say let me give you my business card but I don’t have one on me. Let me give you my email and when you come back from Sweden, I’ll show you how you can do it too.” Tim offered, genuinely.

“Please, yes that would be great.” It couldn’t hurt to make a connection but said our farewells, got off the plane and headed to baggage claim separately.

I was not the most excited getting this baggage. I had one suitcase with my winter clothes and the other with my summer clothes, so both were very necessary, but I was at the Newark airport and had to shuttle to the JFK airport because I refused to lug around all of my stuff in the big city streets of NYC. I didn’t know where exactly I was going or how to get around, so the less I had, the easier my process would be.

“Hey, can I get your Instagram so I can follow your travels.” I turned to my right, taking my one earbud out, to see Tim standing there. I smiled and passed my information along to him, but a part of me was not surprised that he did this. I just had that look I guess.

“Have so much fun on your travels and we will keep in touch!” We parted again, just like that, as if we were friends. I couldn’t help but wonder if that was a common thing, or just a me thing, because stuff like that happened to me more often than not. Ah, there was my luggage... here we go.

It was now 2:40PM. I ended up having to wait almost an hour and a half for the shuttle that I had pre-booked so I sat down and waited. I wasn’t annoyed, and I wasn’t stressed. It was weird. And there, sitting in the JFK airport on August 3, I felt different. It was the weirdest feeling, and had been continually happening on and off since I left the grounds of Dallas, Texas.

I got in the shuttle with nine other people, squished between two not so small men and a driver who was impatient, and yet I was holding back a grin. I was sitting there, stuck in traffic, and seeing on my maps that I was going to be stuck like this for an hour, and yet I was still happy.

I just texted my friend, “I am happy” and truthfully meant it. I stared at those words, and smiled again. There has been days, yes, in the past year or so when I had happy moments and was happy “at times”, but they would come and go. But the feeling right now reminded me of the happiness that flooded through me last summer when I was walking around the streets of Paris a year ago.

Happiness to me was when one is content, at peace and just calm with the world. It is the feeling that things will just work out and though life happens and not all moments are butterflies and rainbows, the way one goes about handling it and accepting it is different. Happiness to me was when I smiled for no reason; when a random jolt of excitement ran through me and I lived in the moment, not thinking about the future or dwelling on the past. Happiness to me was when I feel at home with my present life, being that home to me was a place of the heart and not necessarily a place with four walls. It was a good thing. A really good thing. I hadn’t felt this, consistently the same way, since being in Europe. Though I wasn’t there yet, this feeling was just more proof that I was doing the right thing.

Putting my faith and trust completely in God and fate, there I was sitting in the shuttle, uncomfortable and having multiple reasons to be annoyed, and yet I was feeling happy. A good three hours later, and release of my bags at the airport, I was on the AirTran to New York City- Manhattan. I switched to the E subway from Jamaica and sat back with my headphones in, taking it all in. I loved the subway. I didn’t know why, but I learned that I loved getting around on public transportation in Paris, being the first time I used a system like that. Maybe it was because I didn’t have to focus, or be stuck in traffic, but regardless, it was clear early on I preferred it greatly to driving.

I got off at 50th, walked a few blocks and settled into the hostile type air B and B I booked for two nights. Sharing a room and bathroom with on lady in the tenants home— who also lived there, per law in New York— it was definitely not for everyone. It really was the city that never sleeps. Though I have traveled a lot and honestly didn’t have much fear of being by myself in a city I was not familiar with, I was still cautious.

Having planned on just getting a quick dinner and going to bed, since it was already 9:30 at night, I walked out of the restaurant, ready to do something despite having been on the go for fifteen hours now. There were so many people still out and the night seemed young, so I walked along the busy streets on 9th street until I came across “Lillie’s Victorian Establishment”. I liked trying new things, even if it was just a building, but I knew I wouldn’t find something like this in Dallas, so Lillie’s it was. The architecture was from a ballroom in Northern Ireland in the 1800s and the marble bar I was sitting at was from a Victorian mansion from Belfast, Ireland. A few blocks from broadway and a Brooklyn lager next to me, I pulled out a pen from my purse— never leaving home without one— asked for a napkin and continued my story. My phone was going to die and I didn’t have my journal, but I didn’t mind. In fact, many writers wrote on napkins, because the first rule of being a writer is to, well, just write.

I was in a semi “New York State of mind”, as the Frank Sinatra song went. I loved being in this city, realizing that early on, but it was only a pit stop to the real deal. However, living in the moment now that I had the capacity to do so, stress behind me and my dream before me, I walked the streets of New York just as I had walked the streets of Paris. I ate at a local diner called “The Flame”, walked through Central Park, and then down many, many blocks until I reached Washington Square and then Pier 26. I reached the water, and stared out, dazed by the blue canvas before me. To me, any city near water was automatically a beautiful city. Having walked 20,000 steps by 3:30, I bought a Brooklyn summer ale— I had to try only local beers of course— and found a seat looking out at the water, just in sight of the Brooklyn bridge and Statue of Liberty.

“Can we sit here?” Two guys, definitely foreign— of course— approached me.

“Of course.” I noticed one of them wanted to talk to me, just knew it by his body language, and sure enough, minutes later, we were in full conversation. They were from Brazil, one visiting and one having lived here for 6 years. The conversation flowed, another guy joined from Minnesota and we sat talking. And just like that, day turned into night and I suddenly and randomly had three guys by my side to show me the city from a locals perspective.

“40% of New York City are foreigners actually.” Dana, one of the guys— yes, a guy— explained as we bar hopped. No wonder I liked it so much, I thought with another jolt of excitement.

“Same. I would move to Brazil if I could.” He expressed, and all three boys flooded my imagination with the beauties and culture of Brazil. They described vividly places and showed me pictures of Brazil’s beaches, unfiltered and I was in awe. By the end of it, where I once had no real desire to go to Brazil, it was newly added on the list of my mental bucket list.

“Why is it people say New Yorkers are rude? I can honestly say since I’ve been here, no one has been anymore rude than anywhere else I’ve been to?” I asked.

“I actually do not know. It is a big misconception. People here will help you if you need it and are polite. They may bump into you in the streets but not to be rude, but just because they are trying to get around and there are crowded sidewalks.” I concurred to this. I had walked and walked earlier, dodging one person after another, but even if I had bumped into someone on accident, it was not a big deal. It just came to show that one should not listen to others judgements until they have experienced it first hand. To form ones own opinion was to travel, see and do, not listen, wonder and think.

By the end of the night, and as my last night in America until the next summer, I had done all I would have and could have wanted to do in such a city, and more. I ended up convincing Dana to take me to a gay bar, an Irish pub, Fraunces tavern— where Washington held secret meetings way back when— and walked down Broadway at night when it was bright, colorful and lively. And as I laid down to sleep that night, I learned a few important things about the city that never sleeps: if Sweden didn’t work out, New York was a definite contender.

It clicked what I liked about the cities that I quickly fell in love with. I loved walking everywhere, the small cafes and restaurants with diverse foods with seating outside in the European style way and the architecture. New York had modern buildings, but also very historic buildings, giving a sense of preserved love to the city. I loved the people’s sense of adventure and welcoming the unknown, assuring what Dana said earlier in the night to me: “New York makes you grow up. And if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere”.

Most of all I loved the diversity of people, and the vibe of just “living”. People lived here, just as they lived in Paris and Sweden and other countries I had been to. It confirmed my reason for happiness. I was moving, doing, seeing and being here and soon to be in Stockholm, where in Texas, I was sitting, driving, watching tv, and tanning. I thought about buying a shirt that said “I ❤️ NYC” because it was very true, but decided against it.

Besides the fact that my bags were just too full and I didn’t want to spend the money, even more than that, my heart was longing just a little more by somewhere else. Good bye New York, and hello Stockholm.