An Arrival Scene
I'm a romantic, and intrigued with this first night in New York. A 10:55PM arrival on a Friday Night in prime early-summer. The United Airlines flies directly over Canada and passes over the city grid for a short glimpse, as a neon-soaked air with a tinge of humidity hangs around. I would take a cab, but unfortunately the conversion rate is way too steep from Japanese yen. And plus, I've never taken a cab from the airport when I've been single. Only with a partner. To the airport- of course.
Because I like to feel the way to get into the city via the A train from JFK. If it's by LaGuardia, forget about it- I did this maybe twice and stopped in Jackson Heights for a barrage of Latin American restaurants. To feel the eclectic cultural identity that is Queens.
But this time, I'd imagine moving through the A train, first from Howard Beach area, as it usually is, empty, only with a few passengers from the airport. Then, moving into Ozone Park or East New York, Bed Stuy- Utica, and Kingston Throop having both memories from drastically different times in my life.
Utica with the soft warmth of a white townhouse interior, a garden view, clouds that move fast but slow down out of a bay window to the back. An almost colonial architecture scene, with coffered ceilings, a brick party wall, and white drapey curtains that flow down past the ground, but are tied into knots resembling a southern home.
Kingston Throop, a place where I laid my head before Chicago. I would take the B43 and go North to Greenpoint on weeknights. I'd explore the undersides of the BQE in Bushwick and wind up in dark bars with cosmic techno.
I'd bypass downtown brooklyn, and if the A is running over the F line, East Broadway, a post-pandemic apartment and the boisterous sounds of summer, the smells of fried dumplings and a greasy remembrance. Black vinegar would make my mouth water.
Perhaps I'd end up near 42nd street, as I'd imagine my company or client would book. I have never stayed in a hotel in New York City. Nor looked at room prices, or even considered staying in Times Square for more than an hour. Except during the pandemic. A quiet and dangerous playground. Plazas on 34th street that were havens for homeless, skateboarders, and other unimaginables. But Joe's Pizza, and a quick ride back to Astoria for safety and love within a city with no laws at the time.
The A would also go up past the Upper West Side, but I would have to transfer at 59th Street Columbus Square to get on the local C. I'd play games with her jokingly, and quiz her to name all the stops up from 23rd Street, as we come home from work. Only because I knew all of them. Her internship from Columbia, in the same office space as mine, under a different company, but we never told anyone.
We'd get off at 86th street and grab some Vietnamese pho, to go, and eat it at central park, or riverside park with our dog, Koji- who I'd renamed Köj, after we found out he was a hound of Norwegian descent. He was a polite dog, and never asked for food, or even seemed hungry, or curious about what were eating- "regal," as someone on the street pointed out.
All these different neighborhoods, all at different phases. But here I am, not even in New York yet. In an office building in Minato-ku, in Tokyo, with the bells of 5 o'clock going off in the background.
I'm a romantic, and intrigued with this first night in New York. A 10:55PM arrival on a Friday Night in prime early-summer. The United Airlines flies directly over Canada and passes over the city grid for a short glimpse, as a neon-soaked air with a tinge of humidity hangs around. I would take a cab, but unfortunately the conversion rate is way too steep from Japanese yen. And plus, I've never taken a cab from the airport when I've been single. Only with a partner. To the airport- of course.
Because I like to feel the way to get into the city via the A train from JFK. If it's by LaGuardia, forget about it- I did this maybe twice and stopped in Jackson Heights for a barrage of Latin American restaurants. To feel the eclectic cultural identity that is Queens.
But this time, I'd imagine moving through the A train, first from Howard Beach area, as it usually is, empty, only with a few passengers from the airport. Then, moving into Ozone Park or East New York, Bed Stuy- Utica, and Kingston Throop having both memories from drastically different times in my life.
Utica with the soft warmth of a white townhouse interior, a garden view, clouds that move fast but slow down out of a bay window to the back. An almost colonial architecture scene, with coffered ceilings, a brick party wall, and white drapey curtains that flow down past the ground, but are tied into knots resembling a southern home.
Kingston Throop, a place where I laid my head before Chicago. I would take the B43 and go North to Greenpoint on weeknights. I'd explore the undersides of the BQE in Bushwick and wind up in dark bars with cosmic techno.
I'd bypass downtown brooklyn, and if the A is running over the F line, East Broadway, a post-pandemic apartment and the boisterous sounds of summer, the smells of fried dumplings and a greasy remembrance. Black vinegar would make my mouth water.
Perhaps I'd end up near 42nd street, as I'd imagine my company or client would book. I have never stayed in a hotel in New York City. Nor looked at room prices, or even considered staying in Times Square for more than an hour. Except during the pandemic. A quiet and dangerous playground. Plazas on 34th street that were havens for homeless, skateboarders, and other unimaginables. But Joe's Pizza, and a quick ride back to Astoria for safety and love within a city with no laws at the time.
The A would also go up past the Upper West Side, but I would have to transfer at 59th Street Columbus Square to get on the local C. I'd play games with her jokingly, and quiz her to name all the stops up from 23rd Street, as we come home from work. Only because I knew all of them. Her internship from Columbia, in the same office space as mine, under a different company, but we never told anyone.
We'd get off at 86th street and grab some Vietnamese pho, to go, and eat it at central park, or riverside park with our dog, Koji- who I'd renamed Köj, after we found out he was a hound of Norwegian descent. He was a polite dog, and never asked for food, or even seemed hungry, or curious about what were eating- "regal," as someone on the street pointed out.
All these different neighborhoods, all at different phases. But here I am, not even in New York yet. In an office building in Minato-ku, in Tokyo, with the bells of 5 o'clock going off in the background.