Coming Home, Almost

It was much easier than expected to feel like a tourist in my hometown. The disorienting and gorgeous view from my room at the Mondrian Soho helped. I hovered over Soho, that buzzing enclave of fashiony shops and ’70s artist hold-outs, with the Lower East Side and the Manhattan Bridge in the distance, and suddenly New York looked completely foreign to me.


I was overcome with that same half-frightened, half-giddy elation I’ve felt in hotel rooms in chaotic metropolises like Caracas and Athens — like I would never know this place, like I could disappear easily. That feeling was confusing, because I have been living/trapped in this damn city for over 17 years.

I had sublet my place for the summer and had been traveling around since May. Now it was late August and I was back for two days to pretend to people I was still there and available for work. Three months ends up being a long enough time away. Things that I had learned to ignore (the obnoxious car horns, the smell of burned hot dog buns and exhaust, the screeching subway trains) were noticeable again, and things I had stopped appreciating (the large number of gorgeous and fashionable people, the thrilling energy, the high probability that you will see a minor celebrity on Lafayette Street) were fresh again.

This faux-foreign feeling continued when I took a walk through Soho and then down Church Street below Canal. I got a truly mouth-bending coffee at La Colombe Torrefaction. I have no palate and have always been jealous of people who can detect walnuts or lavender or asparagus in their wine or cheese or espresso. For the first time I could honestly taste a flavor besides coffee within the coffee I was drinking. Caramel, maybe.

As a tourist, I stopped into shops and pretended to myself that I might actually buy something, as if I didnt understand the exchange rate of the currency. I looked at some handsome mid-century furniture at Donzella, and tried on a nicely fitting blazer at the J. Crew Liquor Store. But I saved up 18 bucks to take a yoga class at Kula Yoga, further down on Warren Street. This is a serious yoga spot that has excellent teachers who make you sweat your face off. Their classes will cure you of jet lag, hangovers and minor depression. Then I ate something at Brick next door. Neither the salad nor the decor were overdressed. I also had two sangrias (I find that drinking after yoga really works your body on a cellular level).

I headed to the West Side Highway and its stretch of green riverside (officially known as Hudson River Park), and walked along the water. This long stretch of park along the river varies in character. You can find peaceful, quiet spots (like above 23rd street or down near the Canal entrance) or envelop yourself in the crowd and join the wash of people passing by: intense urban joggers, smartly dressed commuters on their bikes, mothers and nannies pushing strollers, gay city teenagers, homeless wanderers. If I were a tourist, this may be a key experience to understanding the city.

Somehow an entire day passed and I ambled back to the hotel, ate some fish tacos downstairs, and passed out in bed. Outside the skyline twinkled in a layer below me. It felt like I was floating on top of the city.

It was a perfect tourist non-day, in an un-named section of town. Upper Tribeca? South of Canal? West of Chinatown? Upbeca? SoCal, WeChai? It doesn’t have cute acronym, and let’s hope it stays that way. This city can’t handle another hip hotbed, and there is something so peaceful about walking down streets that aren’t trying too hard.

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