I know I keep saying I am done with New York. I gave myself a year to make up my mind. But already I suspect I'll need more time—particularly if I continue this love affair with my new neighborhood.
Sunday was a blur. It began with Peter Pan needing to be let in at 6:34 am (Yes, I latched the door on him when he wasn't home by 2 am. Yes, I am a bad and passive aggressive person.) Then there was sheet changing, brunch with my dad and the buying of bamboo for my windowsill vase. But I spent the afternoon soaking in the last flash of summer sun, alternating outdoor locations for the semi-sacred ritual crossword hours between the park and my balcony, where someone started playing godawful acid rock and I was almost chased away by my neighbor's yipping rat dog.
The bloom still being on the rose, I found these things charming.
Most people might take annoyance at the sounds of my neighborhood on Sunday afternoon. It is an atonal symphony of church bells, child squeals, trains rattling over the bridge, trains braking at Ditmars, the reving of muffler-less engines, and the landing and taking off of airplanes. But I find it oddly comforting.
This, my friends, is the pleasure of having your own space. Perhaps too much solitude in said space, but that is another beast to conquer...