In the first days of the pandemic lockdown, a friend asked on Facebook, “What’s everybody doing tonight?”

“Writing a blog called ‘I Forgot to Live in New York City,’ LOL,” I replied. A whole pandemic, a few books, a few hundred projects (not even kidding), and some travels later, here I am, finally getting ‘er done.

The title riffs on a cartoon I’ve loved for years: a woman, drawn in that old Dick Tracy style, holds a martini and wails, “Oh no — I forgot to have children!” Back in the day, my friends and I, both single and not, found it hilarious. It’s similar to this one, from Pinterest. For me, the line became, “Oh no — I forgot to live in New York City.”

Growing Up Beside The City

My Mother and The City

My mom spent a lot of time in hospitals — Columbia Presbyterian (as it was called then), Rockefeller University, and more. She was often sick, but when she felt well enough, she’d rally and take me to The City. We’d visit museums, see Broadway plays, watch the Rockettes at Radio City, even window-shop at Bloomingdale’s. Those were cherished special times for me.

We didn’t have money to fill Bloomie’s bags and boxes — hospital bills saw to that. We’d stroll through the store as if we were regulars, and for those hours, we belonged to The City. That pretending was its own, best kind of theater.

One of my best New Year’s Eves was when I was sixteen. A friend took me (in place of the girlfriend who’d just dumped him) to dinner and a Broadway show, then to Times Square to watch the ball drop. His heartbreak was my good fortune, though I didn’t recognize it as such then. The crowd, the countdown, the electricity in the air — it was all sheer magic.

Pop Culture Scripts

The reruns of TV shows I watched through my childhood offered some questionable lessons. That Girl ended with Donald proposing to Ann, and she jumped, cheerleader-style, in super-slow motion. In Get Smart, Max told 99 he’d marry her if they survived some absurd predicament. They did, thanks to her quick thinking, and when he asked why she hadn’t saved them earlier, she quipped, “I didn’t have anything to live for.”

Then there was Marcia Brady, turning down her mother’s help with homework because, “Mommy, it’s math.” And let’s not even go into Ricky pounding out “Babalu” on Lucy’s rump.

Somehow, despite all that messaging, we girls of that age turned out okay. More than okay: amazing women are we. We became resilient, resourceful, and — despite the cultural scripts — so much more than damsels in distress. Today, I love that our daughters have Scarlett Johansson and others leading the Marvel universe.

The City’s Energy

New York has a reputation for being cold, but I’ve never fully bought that. One time in high school, we were talking about that very thing, and someone insisted, “Well, you can’t say hi to everybody on the street.” I countered: “I once saw a guy who did. He was just walking down the sidewalk saying, ‘Hi,’ ‘Hi,’ ‘Hi,’ to everyone he passed.” I was about ten at the time.

When I shared that story at a family reunion, I said meeting him was the closest I could imagine ever coming to meeting Jesus — in the flesh, at least.

Life Had Other Plans

Way back when, I pictured the arc of my life clearly: college in Boston, then a whole life in New York City. A little apartment with a fire escape, Broadway shows on Friday nights, bagels with the Sunday Times.

I thought I’d circle back, but a different script was in the works.

After college, I moved to San Francisco. “Just a couple years,” I told myself. But the San Francisco area lasted, and then came Kansas, then Colorado. I went from one ocean white with foam, to the other, to the prairie, to the mountain. (Backwards, but my way.) I even lived in New Zealand for a couple of short stretches. As for New York? Just a few months.

My sisters lived in The City, and I visited them so often I considered myself an honorary resident. I thought I’d follow in their footsteps, but instead, I followed life’s amazing detours.

In fact, I just recently posted this on Facebook and Instagram: Anyone else lived in Boston, Denver, and LA? 🙋‍♀️😄

My husband was humming “Please Come to Boston” just before driving me to the Denver airport last month to fly off to Boston.

Being a numbers guy, he figured it’s literally about a one in a million chance (for U.S. folks, anyway) to have called all three cities home. Depends on the math you use — metro area vs. city limits, etc. etc. — but let’s roll with it.

Honestly, I like being one in a million. It has such a nice ring to it. ☺️

And if I toss in my hometown in New York State, San Francisco, and a stint in Topeka, Kansas, it’s probably more like one in 340.1 million (yup, the whole U.S. population). 🤣

Plus, and this wasn’t in the IG post, I’ve been to all 50 states and 75 countries, including two complete circumnavigations of the globe. So I really feel at home wherever I am.

Note: I tried telling two flat-Earthers about my full circumnavigations, but they remained dubious, LOL. Oh, well — I tried.

Visiting as an “Honorary Resident”

I probably won’t live in New York now. But one sister and my college roommate still do, so I get to visit, slip into the rhythm, and pretend. My husband and stepkids loved their first trip. They looked surprisingly hip, not like we’d just flown in from Topeka.

New York keeps giving me memories: messy, lucky, unforgettable. Part of me will always be that little girl wandering down the street in wide-eyed wonder, gazing up at the lights and the buildings that touch the sky, walking through FAO Schwarz (you’re never too old for that iconic toy store), and passing more people than I see in a year these days.

Enough

So no, I never lived in New York City, not in the way I once imagined. But I’ve lived beside it, around it, through it, and back to it in pulses. I’ve carried The City in me the way you carry a favorite song and hum it from time to time.

And that, I’ve realized, is enough.

Featured in: Home Is This Whole Planet ~ Life Detours ~ Where Are You From? All Over. ~ World Traveler ~ Finding Home Everywhere