DEAR ALIZARIN: I love NY

Arrived back in the city that will always hold a most special place in my heart: New York City. It makes me giddy. Well, not always, but on this visit it does.

We have been separated for two years and last time I was deep in depression and nearly crushed by the vitality and energy of the city. This time, the city's exuberance is fueling my own newfound love of life. It is true the city reflects and magnifies your mood. For me, at this time, it is a beautiful effect.

On stepped out onto the streets in Mahattan, perhaps not ironically the very intersection where I stepped out of the subway at 11am on September 11th, 2001, after being stuck on a train for 3 hours to be confronted with the sight of an inferno to my south that still gives me chills today. Last night, though, the trees were still lined with white lites, the stores glowed, travels hustled or waited for cabs. But it was the warm and cinnamon spell of roasting peanuts that welcomed me back home. Ahhhh. For those who don't know, on a cold NYC street, it is the most comforting of aromas, rivaled only by the smell of a fireplace in a mountain lodge after a deep snow.

On the subway ride home, I was mesmerized by those unique creatures: New Yorkers. Some were obviously more native than others. To my right was a woman desperately trying to sell some copies of the "Street News." Her face was gaunt and her tangles hair was haphazardly held up in a red scrunchy. "Help me help myself." She yelled with a deep desperation over and over. No one bought a paper. Her nails confirmed her poor health that her thin frame revealed. To my left were the young Columbia students. Transplants from a kinder world, perhaps. Their porcelain skin and finely cut woold coats confirmed a life where poor health and "helping yourself" was never much of an effort. Their voices held a confidence and privilege and comfort. One young girl next to me commented "She doesn't seem to be doing a very good job of helping herself." They then continued to discuss the homeless/beggars around the city that they see on a reuglar basis, with much of the tone as if referring to landmarks. Yet, somehow, here we all were, chooing to live in this city, elbow to butt, as it often is on the train. I glanced down to the woman sitting below where I held on to the rail. Middle aged, working class, she seemed. Tired. Going home? Her hair, though, intrigued. It was brownish peppered with gray with pink highlights. Here in New York. A middle aged white man got on and stood in the aisle in front of three speaking Spanish. He asked them if they could translate a program he had. They were unsuccessful. But this led to a conversation with the woman behind him about a concert he just attended about Lorca. People got on and off at each stop. A young man in neat hip hop attire took a seat, then offered it to a young woman. He insisted, in fact, until she sat down. He caught me watching and gave me a lovely smile. Yes, there are those who pushed and I had to aggressively get myself and my bags off when my stop came. However, it is all the beauty of New York.

And in that spirit of adventure and having to get going, I am posting this without editing.