My first visit to New York City happened when I was eleven years old. My memories from that trip are hazy, though I clearly remember the taxi ride from the airport to midtown Manhattan. The sun had already set. All the windows of the taxi were rolled down. The warm evening air, honking from car horns, and twinkling city lights flooded the interior of the cab.
I was squashed between my parents in the back seat. They said nothing. The taxi swerved around cars, stopped suddenly, and blew through red traffic lights. Sitting stiffly, heads jutted forward, and hands balled into fists, they were terrified that they were going to die.
I looked out the window. Sleek buildings loomed above us. People swarmed the sidewalks. Carts selling fragrant foods were parked on street corners. Rows of shop signs illuminated the night.
I was thrilled. I decided that, one day, I would live in New York.
Three years ago, I was blessed with the opportunity to do just that.
My time here is coming to an end. I was recruited for a job in Seattle. Though I state with pride that I am a “West Coast person”, I have mixed feelings about leaving New York.
For the next few months, more posts than usual will focus on New York City. Recording these stories will help me remember my time here. I don’t want to forget.