I Love New York

There’s that old adage that New York is like an ex-girlfriend. Once you leave, you think about her all the time. You spend most of your waking hours and hard-earned money trying to get her back.

I moved away in July, spent some time in Europe, and then hunkered down in my mom’s house in Virginia, trying to reassemble my life while my fiancé finishes graduate school in London. I was supposed to move there and stay with him for the year he’s there, but I decided against it at the last minute.

We were on a train to DC, on the way to visit his grandma before we left. I hadn’t secured a worker’s visa for the UK in time, and my Irish Citizenship application was taking far longer than I’d expected. So I held his hand and squeezed it as I asked, “How would you feel if I stayed in America?”

He furrowed his brow, “Like on the flight we’re supposed to get on in two days?”

I assured him, no, I’d of course come with him to help him move in, “But what if I came back here after? I could meet you in London once I get my citizenship approved.”

We talked it through, planned visits, and our wedding around a year of long-distance. I took him to London, and we cried at Heathrow. We’ve done long distance before, and luckily, neither of our love languages is physical touch, so we’re pretty decent at getting through it.

Two months in, I got a decision on my Irish Citizenship, and while not an outright denial, it has put a wrench in the works. It will most likely take another six months for me to receive the right to work in the UK.

I panicked for a full 24 hours, crying over the phone with Lennon, and then plunged myself into journaling, LinkedIn and sublet searches, because if I couldn’t get to London, I was going back to New York.

Actually, when I shared the news that I couldn’t make it to London after all, my best friends went “Oh noooo…but also, yay.” Because they knew, as well as I, that I was going back to New York.

An extremely lucky twist of fate fell into place, and one of Lennon’s classmates had a connection to a job in the city. We swapped contact info, and the next day, I was interviewing to be an Editorial Assistant for a book publisher. Two days before my 26th birthday, as Lennon flew over the Atlantic to come home for the holidays, I signed the new hire paperwork.

So, I’m on my way to the city to celebrate my birthday, safe in the knowledge that I’ll be home soon. My flight is at 6 AM, the morning of my birthday, and I drive to the airport with ice-cold eye patches on and a steaming cup of coffee in hand. I play my party girl playlist the whole way there, trying to trick my body out of sleep.

By some birthday miracle, I get through security with little trouble, though for a solid ten minutes, I believe my flight is cancelled. I call the American Airlines Customer Support Line in a panic. I whimper into the receiver, “I just–I have to get back to New York.”

Sheryl, the woman on the other line says, “Honey, this flight is a-go.” I go to tell her that it says cancelled on the flight board, only to realize I’d mistaken my flight 4539 to LGA - New York, for flight 4789 - ORD - Chicago. We hang up the phone with holiday greetings.

When I arrive at LGA, I immediately assume the pace I’m used to. I remind someone, as gently as possible, to stand on the right so that people can pass on the escalator. I smile at the children staring awestruck at the LaGuardia waterfall.

I take an Uber through Greenpoint, and we pass what looks to be a pub called Bantry Bay Publick House. But upon closer inspection, I realize it’s The County Cork Benevolent, Patriotic & Protective Association of New York.

The County Cork Association was founded in 1824 with the mission to serve and help Irish immigrants from County Cork adapt to American life. They raised funds for the unemployed and took care of the disabled. They hosted dances for younger Irish-Americans to meet. My grandparents met at a dance like that. They weren’t from Cork, they’re from Kerry and Clare, but still.

The car drives on, into Williamsburg, where I meet Lennon in a coffee shop, like the thousands of times before, over the past four years we’ve lived here. We stop by my pilates studio, and I hug a few co-workers. I mention to them in whispers that I’m moving back, that I hope to come back and teach there again in the new year.

We have lunch, and when we get the bill, I look at him and ask, “Home?”

He smiles, sadly. “Don’t you mean–hotel?”

I sigh.

We go to the hotel and take a mid-afternoon nap. When we wake up, it’s dark outside, and we hurry to get ready for my birthday dinner.

We take the L train to 1st Ave and walk to the restaurant. Lennon points out each bar we’ve been to, and every store we’ve shopped at as we pass. He recalls the times we’ve been, what we ordered, and what we bought.

My friends are waiting for us inside. We have dinner and catch up. After our meal, we pile into an Uber and go to the bar we always go to for dancing.

Once we leave for the night, my cup is metaphorically full of love, and my actual cup, drained of booze. My head swims as we step out into the cold air. I turn left, walking back to our apartment. Lennon has to pull me by the wrist into an Uber. Petting my hair in the back seat, “We don’t live there anymore, remember?”

The next morning, I am coaxed back to life by Lennon waving a bagel and a bottle of Pedialyte under my nose.

That evening, we are on a flight back to Virginia. We look down at our city, at its shimmering light and pitch-black waters. We fly over the Statue of Liberty. Lennon holds out his hand for me to grab, already prepared for what’s coming.

I start to sniffle. Before I moved here, I’d visited this city with my mother nearly every year of my life. And I would make fun of her, because every time we saw the Statue of Liberty, she would cry. Now, I’m just like my mother.

Lennon says something about “New York, take care of my girl while I’m away,” and it’s so corny, it makes me gag.

But it makes me think about this town, and how it has taken care of me. I think about the Cork County BP&P Association. I think about my grandmother, stepping off the boat at Ellis Island. She was 26. She was my age when she moved into a women’s home in the Bronx. She had a middle-school education, and she met a boy from County Clare whom she married. They had my mother, the second-oldest of their four children. My mother was born in Flushing, Queens and is a life-long Mets fan because of it.

My grandparents and mother moved away. Her daughter moved back. I lived there for four years with a boy I’ve loved, who I’d never have met if my grandmother hadn’t boarded a boat 72 years ago. That boy now lives in London, which would send a shiver up my Irish anti-colonialist ancestors, and I’m moving back to New York. I’ll be back by the end of January. Lennon will be back in October. Maybe I’ll make him go to an Irish dance with me.