Hey, it’s me, Sarah and this is Note to Self, a newsletter where I talk about whatever I want. Today, I’m joined by some of my favorite people, and we’re talking about the city we’re lucky to call home.
It was a sunny Sunday morning in 2016 and my friend Tin and I were strolling up South 3rd toward breakfast. My usually quiet block of Williamsburg was rather lively for hangover hours — there were muffled cheers and cowbells ringing through the brisk November air. It was New York Marathon day, we were about to learn.
I had never lived in a major city where something like a marathon is more of a public holiday, where people watch and cheer as a social event. Looking around, I saw signs for loved ones, but everyone was cheering for everyone. In fact, runners had written their own names on their shirts so that strangers could call out to them. I found this unbearably tender. How vulnerable to let a sea of screaming faces know: “I’m doing something really hard, and I need you to call out my name and tell me I can.”
Tin and I watched for a while before making our way to the cozy, train-car-turned-diner, Diner. The mood inside was palpably joyful. They were playing ABBA’s greatest hits and at every table, people were singing along to “Mama Mia.” Friends were mouthing the words to each other and swaying back and forth. Even the waitstaff and bartenders were passing each other drink trays with shimmying shoulders. Tin and I stayed for a long time, soaking up the communal buzz and drinking drip coffee.
I felt full of and surrounded by love. For my friend, and our painfully cool waitress, for the strangers inside, and the ones outside, and for the city of New York.
I think of this day often, one of my favorite “New York moments.” It encapsulates much of what I love about this city; in particular, the specialness of witnessing all the other lives that exist here. 8.468 million people call this city home, and each of them carves out their own little enclave of love and belonging. They have inside jokes with their coworkers, favorite restaurants with their friends, and family traditions. They’re singing ABBA in the next booth at the diner. They’re holding the train door open for you. They’re running the marathon. This city can hold so much for so many.
Today is New York Marathon day. Right now, as this hits your inboxes, I’m getting dressed to meet friends on Lafayette, where we’ll scream and clap for strangers. “People are so amazing,” I will be saying all morning and all day. “New York is so amazing.”
This newsletter is almost always a love note to New York City, or at least to my life here. But what can I say about this place that hasn’t already been said? I have no fresh or groundbreaking thesis on this city, just a long list of memories. So instead of attempting some grand point of view, I’m going to tell you a few of my favorite New York moments, and so are some of my favorite people.
Welcome to Note to Self’s very first ensemble issue. It’s long — a marathon, if you will. I hope you enjoy it.
Evyn
My New York moment is a lesson, as moments in New York often are. At the close of my first New York chapter, I had ended a minor fling with an older suitor in a way that was decidedly not mutual (think: "he's just not that into you"). It was, frankly, gut-wrenching, but only one of many reasons I chose to leave the city. When I returned to New York for chapter two a couple of years later, I had built up enough confidence through the attention of other suitors, that he was beginning to fade into the rearview.
Two weeks into chapter two, dressed in an all-black "going out outfit" (cringe) and red lipstick, the doors of the 6 train opened up, and there he was, like an optical illusion. What are the chances?! I was thrilled to be caught in a "hot" outfit (double cringe), and I muscled up a bubbly smile to match. We got to chatting and he invited me to get off the train with him in two stops, change my plans, and go to his friend's party. The alluring energy of my first New York chapter got the best of me, and we exited the 6 train together a couple of stops later.
15 minutes into that party, I had the epiphany I didn't have the first time around. His friends weren't THAT cool, he wasn't THAT cool, and I deserved someone who actually liked me as much as I liked them. I Irish-exited the party, walked to meet my friends in the Lower East Side, and never saw him again. New York tested me. I’m so grateful I passed.
Steven
Wouldn’t be right to talk about New York without talking about Canal Street. There isn’t a single New York moment - not even the Yankees beating the Mets in the 2000 World Series - that compares to the mixtape trade on Canal Street.
In the early aughts, it was a Wild West kind of time right before the advent of music blogs and (much later) commercialized streaming. In that era, Hip Hop journalism was limited to what you’d hear from Funk Flex, The Source Magazine, and MTV. If you knew, you knew. My friends and I would pile into my Lincoln Mark VIII, head downtown with the $40 or $50 we could scrounge up, and make the rounds.
The mixtape era launched 50 Cent, G-Unit, and Lil Wayne. More importantly, it kept those artists in the zeitgeist between album drops. Without the Canal Street mixtape trade, I would’ve never heard Papoose’s “Alphabetical Slaughter,” The Game’s “300 Bars and Running,” or Cassidy’s “The Problem vs. The Hustler.” It was three-for-$10, all you had to do was head down the right alley.
Kids today will never know the thrill of rolling up to a high school party, blasting deep-cut Young Buck, nodding their heads, adorned with a slightly-too-big Yankee fitted, in the depths of New York suburbia. That’s a shame.
Me
It was my first snowstorm in New York, and it was a big one. The 2016 blizzard put 27.5 inches of snow in Central Park, shut down the trains, and closed the roads. My roommate and I took the rare work-from-home day as an opportunity to make mulled wine and start drinking at 3 p.m.
The windows of our shoebox apartment faced dumpsters and other buildings, so we had no idea what was going on outside, except for whatever Instagram dispatches we were watching instead of working. Officials were begging people to stay off the streets. Our West Coast fathers were telling us things like, “Fill your bathtub with water, just in case.” It seemed downright apocalyptic.
But by 11 p.m., curiosity got the better of us, and we ventured outside for a look. With no cars, and no creaking overhead J train, Williamsburg was an almost peaceful winter wonderland. In fact, the only sound was laughter. Everything else was quiet and closed, but on Havemeyer, the bars were open, full, and spilling into the empty, snowy streets. People were clustered together like drunk penguins, keeping each other warm, flirting, running down the block, and body-sliding toward Metropolitan Ave. I felt almost stupid. How could I have expected anything else? This is what people do here. They make magic out of everything, even freak blizzards.
Isabel
I’ve made a lot of memories in the two years since I moved to NYC. There’s always somewhere to go, someone to meet, a new place to sit and have a glass of wine. But my favorite moments are the ones that I spend observing. I always notice when the trees go bald. It makes me particularly emotional. It feels so permanent, the winter here. Until one day, you see a teeny tiny sprouting of color in the nook of a tree branch and your stomach does a little somersault of joy.
Before you know it, it's cherry blossom season. In the spring, I went to Central Park to see them in full bloom. There were so many people. Someone had brought big speakers and was DJing for a group of roller skaters. I stood and watched them for a long time from the sidelines. The music was the exact perfect backdrop to the people whizzing around in circles on their skates. They were dressed in bright colors, dancing and spinning and pumping their legs, completely lost in the rhythm of their bodies. I was mesmerized by them. It was like watching an awakening. Every move appeared to be a deep shaking of their bones, as though they were discarding the stiffness of winter and ushering in the expansiveness of spring. A small crowd spontaneously formed around them, taking pictures and dancing along to the music on the perimeters, cheering them on. Here we were, a bunch of strangers, collectively just enjoying life together in that one sunny moment, until soon we'd drift in a multitude of different directions and continue on with the rest of our days.
Spice
Your first year in New York has a special spontaneity woven into it. You never know quite where the night will take you. This night started at a work outing in a Times Square bowling alley, with pints of beer, mozzarella sticks, and buffalo wings flowing freely. As the party began to quiet down, my coworkers-turned-friends and I were deciding where to make our next move. Before we left, our boss handed us a nice bottle of champagne — “Here! There’s extra. Take this with you.” We carried our prized bottle out the door and made our way to the nearest late-night dinner option: the Times Square Olive Garden.
If you haven’t had the pleasure, picture this: the Times Square Olive Garden is a multi-level establishment complete with escalators and elevators. Wrapped in large windows, it's wedged into the North side of Times Square with near-panoramic views of flashing billboards and endless throngs of tourists.
“Table for 3?” the waitress asked us. We were quickly seated on the first floor, where the lights of the jumbo screens washed us in a technicolor glow. In celebratory fashion, my friend immediately decided to pop the champagne bottle — because what better time would there be? Our waitress appeared in an instant. “Ma’am, you can’t do that here. I’m going to have to ask you to leave” Embarrassed but also laughing uncontrollably, we made our way to the exit. And that’s how we got kicked out of the Times Square Olive Garden.
Me again
I was 24 when the Domino sugar factory was being converted into the public park it is today. One night, meandering through the neighborhood on a second date, I stopped to peer through a hole in the covered chainlink fence and wondered aloud what the park would look like when it was done. In answer, my date pointed to the bottom edge of the fence at our feet: “I bet you’d fit under there.”
I am not, traditionally, one to “break” anything even remotely resembling a “rule,” but there was something about his tone — challenging and flattering at the same time. Without a second thought, I dropped to the pavement and slid under the fence in my dress, the metal edge dragging across my sternum as I went. My date followed suit and together we crept between diggers and made our way around the remnants of the factory until, suddenly, we were staring at a view of Manhattan that had never existed for either of us. I looked up at him, wide-eyed and breathless. We made out, obviously, and then snuck out the other side, my heels sinking into the dirt the whole time. It didn’t work out with that guy, in the end, but this story alone was worth the eventual heartache.
Sophia
It is October and we are high at the ballet — not just on the psilocybin some of us took moments ago, but on a feeling I have a lot in New York: the feeling that I must be getting away with something.
It often feels like a trick to have so much: To sit in the tiers of a theater I once only knew through Moonstruck and get dizzy from mushrooms, from the martinis at dinner, from the altitude of our cheap seats, from how lucky we are. We squeeze each other's hands because we have to be quiet but don't want to stop saying, "hi i'm here. I'm watching this ballet but who I'm thinking about is you."
Afterward, we traipse the courtyard, all in tulle and top buns and chunky heels and fuchsia lipstick. Passersby compliment our outfits and it feels as though we are famous. When we leave the ballet we will still have to deal with all the shoes that are dropping: the people we want to love us, and also the rent. But for now, our faces are wet from the tiny, glistening drops from the fountain, and there's nothing else we want.
Dan
I’m schlepping a borrowed electric bass to the Nostrand Avenue LIRR stop. Electric basses are heavy, so my arms are burning. It’s also early July in Brooklyn. I’m sweating.
The reason I’m doing all of this is because of a cold email I sent a few weeks ago to Danny Weinkauf. Danny is the bassist for the geeky, leftfield rock band They Might Be Giants. When I reached out to him on a total whim, asking if he’d be open to giving me a bass lesson, he amazingly said yes. More amazingly, he lives just a few stops away from me on the LIRR.
The theme of summer 2014 is proximity. It’s the same summer that I saw a major artist play a solo show in a basement to about 15 people, months before she blew up and became a Rolling Stone cover story. And it’s the same summer I casually made conversation with an underground rap performer at a DIY venue, who would later go on to star in one of the biggest Broadway hits of the decade the following year. It’s the summer that I’m suddenly aware of my proximity to the pulse of culture.
I get to Danny’s place, and it’s like any regular Long Island suburbia house. I meet his family. Then, he spends a generous three hours with me in his studio, giving me a detailed tour of electric bass techniques from the era of Motown to the present. Like all the best teachers I’ve had, he’s able to distill a great deal of complexity into a simple, easy-to-grasp set of concepts. When I leave to get on the train home, I’m more inspired than I’ve been in years. So much so that my instrument case has a surprising new lightness to it. And what felt like a profound and epic journey was really just a short commute. It’s all about the proximity.
Allie
The summer my roommate turned 21 was my first in New York. On the actual night of her birthday, we were late to meet friends because we got lost headed for the bar — I have no memory of who organized this…it could have been…me? Once we eventually boarded the correct train, it ended up stalling underground, delaying us further.
So, we were on the train when my roommate turned 21 at midnight. I watched the clock turn over and made the announcement, loudly, excitedly, to the entire car that it was in fact Meg's birthday, she was officially of drinking age, and everyone on the train was invited to join me in singing "Happy Birthday.” I kicked it off with high enthusiasm and no one joined me. The song ended with a whimper.
Me, yet again.
Rachel had her long dancer’s arms draped over my shoulders, her head back laughing on the packed dance floor. We were at our favorite spot: Union Pool. It was grimy in appearance and clientele, and the bar was always way too crowded for its shitty well-drinks. But we didn’t care. We went there because they played the music we wanted to dance to and because it was a very fun place to walk around as cute and careless young women.
A man approached us on the dance floor. “Are you two together?” he shouted with a smirk. “Yeah, sure,” Rachel rolled her eyes and then fixed them back on me. We knew this move well: if you ignore them hard enough, they leave. But he didn’t. “Can I watch?” he asked, reaching between us, trying to pull us apart. Big mistake.
Rachel turned to him, placed both hands on his chest, and shoved a man twice her size so hard he stumbled back into the group behind us. Our friends rushed in to drag us from the dance floor as Rachel shouted obscenities and waved her middle fingers at him, her eyes glowing with rage.
We went to the courtyard for some fresh air and laughed it off until we were ready to dance again. It could have ruined our night but instead, it became part of our lore: that one creepy guy, and Rachel’s super-human response. The seedy club we used to go to, just to dance to Drake and take selfies in the bathroom. The thrill and terror of being a young woman in a city full of wolves dressed like young men.
Simone
My favorite moment in New York isn’t a happy one. Actually, quite the opposite.
I had arrived 18 months earlier and now, on my last night in the city, stood on a roof surrounded by people I’d come to love, watching 4th of July fireworks burst above Manhattan.
During my time in New York I bloomed, worked a lot and fell in love — not with a man, as I had secretly hoped (and my mom had not-so-secretly feared, worrying it would make me stay forever) — but with a city. Only, I hadn’t clocked it until that last night, crying big, wet stains on my friends as I hugged them one by one in the dark.
Ironically, it wasn’t until that very moment, right as I was leaving New York, that I realized I was not done with it yet.
Sorry, Mom.
Amelea
It’s 6:55 pm. My Brooklyn apartment is filled with smoke so thick I can barely see two feet in front of my face. I can hardly appreciate the smell of turkey and roasted sweet potatoes filling the air because I’ve convinced myself that I’ve ruined it all. “Who even likes turkey anyway?!” I think to myself as Steven and I both inspect the bird. It was more of a rust color than a golden brown and the meat thermometers (Yes, plural. And when did I become an Adult with Two Meat Thermometers???) had taken a nosedive into a soapy sink and could no longer be trusted.
The sole surviving thermometer reads 115° - undercooked - but the smoke alarm is telling us to trust our instincts. Before we can properly debate the turkey’s done-ness, we look down and remember that we're still in our sweatpants. “Fuck it!” we say to each other as we decide to risk it, throwing every single window wide open.
After all, in 15 short minutes, my home would be packed with friends, friends of friends, friends with new boyfriends, newly single friends, new-to-the-city friends, and childhood best friends. My windowsill would be transformed into a full-service bar, stocked with jewel-toned bottles of natty wine and red solo cups. My table would be piled high with so many side dishes it might collapse. Every possible surface would become a chair. And the turkey would be perfect.
Lily
As New Yorkers, we love to harp on New York.
We berate her for the cottage cheese smell wafting from the F train station or the bags of trash that rustle at night, not from the wind but from scavenging rodents enjoying a late-night supper.
We criticize her for frigid winters that bring gray, soupy eddies to every crosswalk and lament the mere existence of Times Square or waiting 2 hours for a hybrid croissant-donut.
We complain about $23 sandwiches and five-floor walk-ups and windowless apartments shared with Craigslist roommates who vaguely resemble Jean Valjean if Jean Valjean was an East Village chef who owned a pit bull with a bulbous neck growth.
But really, it’s all one big inside joke.
Because despite our complaints, there is nothing and nowhere like her. And we all know we wouldn’t trade her for anything.
Me, one last time.
It was August 2021 and I had just moved back to New York from Amsterdam. At the time, I was less a person and more a container of feelings. Prominently, humiliation. I felt like a failure, and though I was lucky to be back in a city I knew so well, I was also very nervous to confront my past.
I was in the bathroom at Honey’s in Bushwick with my friend Paige. “I’m nervous,” I told her. It was a birthday party, and soon, hordes of old friends would arrive. People I hadn’t seen in years. People who either knew why I was suddenly back in New York or didn’t. Hard to say which was worse. “What if people ask about what happened? What if I start crying?” Paige, a paragon of empathy, put her hand on my arm. “You don’t owe anyone the story. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” I nodded with already-glazed eyes.
We made our way back to the rooftop bar, joining Paige’s partner, my friend, Tin. He handed us plastic cups of wine and we swanned around the dancefloor, the layered skylines of Brooklyn and Manhattan gleaming in the distance. And then it happened. Everyone seemed to arrive at once: these kind, warm, familiar faces I was so happy and terrified to see. I held my breath as they worked through the crowd toward us. Greg was first. He gave me a big hug and said, simply, perfectly, “Welcome home.”
xx,
Sarah