When I was a young kid growing up in a small English town, there were two places that I wanted to live when I got older: London and New York City. I’ve written about why London was on that (very short) list, and the only post-rationalization I have for New York is “fancier, less accessible London”. London seemed out of reach for me back then, so New York City felt like a fantasy—one that I thought might last my whole life.
I’d search for images of New York and I’d stare at them (as soon as they loaded) imagining what it might be like to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, to look out from the top deck of the Empire State Building, and to stroll the length of Central Park. The TV we watch growing up in the UK is so often US-centric, and New York City always features as the most magical place. Home Alone, Friends, and (a guilty pleasure) Sleepless in Seattle.
When I got older, I’d replace the Google Image search with Google Maps, and especially Street View. I’d walk all around the city—panning the view left and right to memorize the buildings, to note the names of hot dog vendors, and to stare at a snapshot of Times Square. I’d explore for hours, wondering what it might feel like to really be surrounded by those huge buildings; to walk into those stores; to eat that hot dog.
Older still and you’d find me reading the poetry and prose from writers who were similarly in love with New York. I’d read Howl by Allen Ginsberg and recite it during poetry nights at college. When I got to my favorite string of words “…from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge…” I’d give it some extra zeal, punctuating the still air with the sort of energy that I thought it deserved.
I studied Design and Illustration at college, and I’d follow all of the artists and designers in New York. I’d read about the art of the subway. I’d look up artists collectives in Brooklyn. I’d imagine joining a studio near the Brooklyn Bridge where some of my favorite artists and designers worked side by side. I’d picture studying the typography of the subway, riding every line and stopping at every station until I saw it all.
At some point (as it does) life happened, and I stopped thinking about New York quite so much. I’d occasionally speak to people about how great DUMBO (probably) was and about the work of folks who lived there, but I stopped reading the poetry and walking the digital streets. I moved from my home town to London, and I was so enthralled by finally making it there that New York didn’t take up quite so much space.
Fast forward a few years and New York came up again—but this time with a question that I didn’t really think I’d ever be asking: should we stay in London, or should we move to New York. My wife’s mother grew up in California and my wife has U.S. citizenship. From the first day we met we’d talked about an American adventure one day, but it took us many more years to act on it. We were headed, we thought, for California.
When we spoke to the companies we worked for, they agreed that we could stay if we moved to the U.S.—but only on the East Coast. I hadn’t thought about the real prospect of moving to New York. I guess I’d convinced myself years ago that it was—or maybe even should be, in some pseudo-romantic sense—a dream; a fantasy. But now it became almost inevitable—we were headed to the East Coast, so… New York?
The next few months were a whirlwind. Selling most of our possessions, shipping the ones that we didn’t, saying our farewells to family and friends, and booking an Airbnb in Brooklyn—right on Fulton Street in Bedford Stuyvesant. When we finally arrived and stepped out of the cab, I was filled with all of the feelings. I don’t think I could even describe them. It was all of them, all at once—a Mega Feeling.
I lived in Brooklyn for 2 years. I’ll skip the details for now, because this post is less about New York than the idea of New York. I can tell you that I walked from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge. I strolled the length of Central Park. I walked so many of the streets. I ate the hot dogs. I’ll write more about that some other day—but somehow, I had made it to New York City.