I just finished the third coat of paint on two of my bedroom walls. Red. As in a fiery maple leaf, or a delicious tomato, or. . . ketchup? The cheap kind, not the deep maroon of heintz or hunts, but with an almost orange hue akin to ball park condiments. You might ask what color I chose for the other two walls-
. . .
Yellow.
My room might appear to have been decorated with kitchen sauces by the time I'm done. At least it won't smell like said deliciousness. Mmm. . . vinegar. . . salt. . . smells that last.
Which leads me to the thought of the smell in my apartment building's hall. Putrid seems an accurate term. Let me preface this by explaining that New York has been rather warm since I arrived Monday. Yesterday the fire hydrants in my neighborhood had been turned on, an action I'd seen in movies but doubted happening in the course of normal life. At around 90 degrees in a large city, though, I suppose one does what one must to detract from the oven like sensation that clings to everything.
Ovens are delightful when they're put to good use. They bake delicious things, creating a waft of tantalizing scents, tempting one to hang about and steal a wayward cookie. The hallway of my apartment building is not baking cookies.
The smell is somewhat akin to a combination of ashtray and greasy potatoes. I'm not sure if you have ever noticed the difference between cigarette smoke and an ashtray, but let me assure you that the difference is vast and the ashtray wins the award for most obscene.
Climbing three flights of stairs in the midst of such delightful company is not particularly comforting. Or welcoming. I'm sure that this experience will fade as the following things happen: (1). The weather becomes less kiln-inducing, (2). The follicles in my nose die a little from having lived in a large, smelly city, (3). I become so used to living here that I associate the smell of baking garbage with homecoming, (4). I acquire an actual room to live in so that coming home is a happy and relaxing event and thus don't mind trudging through disgusting odors to visit my oasis.
With regards to (4), I must explain that I have a room, but it is in all sorts of disarray. I am not living in my room, but rather in my roommate's room. It's sort of like camping out in a closet. There's nowhere to sit and hide on the internet (I'm writing this on the floor. My butt has gone numb). There's nowhere to lie down and watch a movie.
None of these things are the end of the world, but for someone who relies on a solid sense of home, who has been without her own stable, personal space for more than 2 months, and who is in the midst of a stressful transition, this is
incredibly frustrating. All I want at this moment is to have a comfortable refuge from the difficulty of finding my way in a foreign world.
I mean, I don't even know where to get a good cup of coffee. I have to go exploring, discover new lands and new comfort zones just to find a caffeine fix. Which is fantastic- adventures are exactly what I wanted. However, I have to do the same thing when I get 'home'. There's no marginal space for me to feel at ease or at peace or comfortable. My surroundings are not very supportive.
Inner Peace, babe. It's a struggle.
I know that this will all pass. I know it's part of the big experience of moving and being 24 and trying to make sense of this world. I know in my head that this will get better. But in my gut, I can't help but feel a little twinge, wondering if this risk, this
GIGANTIC risk, was worth it.
I think about the story my grama told me about the time she tried to move to New York. She got off the train and looked around, which was precisely when she realized that she didn't know what she was doing. She didn't have a job, or a place to stay, or friends. Her response? Run home. She stayed the night with friends of her mother, and then took a train home.
When my grama told me this story, I gave her a patronizing look. I attempted to be considerate and understanding, but inside all I could think was how stupid and weak she must have been. Why would she try to move to New York without making plans? Why wouldn't she stay?
The truth is this: I have made a
LOT of plans in preparation for this venture. And though I have a place to stay, I am still unsure if things will work out. For the first time I understand my grama's decision to return home without a fight. In fact, I almost envy her the ability to admit defeat. Not that I have been defeated yet, as it's far too early to tell
that, but I don't feel particularly fierce.
People have been telling me all summer 'how brave' I must be for doing what I'm doing. I've accepted their words, and scoffed inside, just a bit. Well, maybe a lot. Brave?? I'm not brave! It's not as though I had a choice to be sheepish. What else am I to do? This is just where I'm supposed to be, what I'm supposed to do. It made sense.
But last night as I took a break from painting my room to go downstairs to the DingDong Lounge (I live above a bar. Sweet.) and have a pint, I realized just how scary this venture is. I could have stayed in San Francisco, where I know my way around, where all the great coffee is, and when free museum days are. I could have stayed in Grand Rapids, where my closest of friends live.
Where my heart still beats outside my chest. Where I could probably finaggle a job out of friends and relatives. But I left.
And here I have no cushion. No financial cushion. No real social cushion. This is a big risk. I sat at the bar and drank my Brooklyn Lager and didn't talk to anyone. The act of sitting there, present with my fears, stepping outside of my door to challenge those fears, was enough for that moment.
Halfway through my beer a torrential downpour began. I watched as outside the trees were whipped about and rain fell in great glops. And though it's silly and selfish, I felt as though the rain was for me.
Somehow it made me feel safe.
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