About a year ago, I moved to New York City for a co-op position. This decision was not impulsive; it was a methodical brick I placed years ago in my game of life to build the ideal wall of hopes and dreams. This wall has cracks, gaps and imperfections. It crumbles often, if not daily, and I am still searching for the materials to keep it intact. Despite New York’s density, I have never lived anywhere with such a profound sense of community, the glue for my misshapen wall.Â
The first week of January marked the first week of my New York escapades, filled with aimless subway rides, bitter cold fronts, slippery stairs, unfamiliar neighbors, trips to every coffee shop in search of my “place” and a visit from two high school friends who had never been to the city.
We began our sightseeing with iced lattes and PopUp Bagels. We wandered through Washington Square Park, tried on the Aritzia Super Puff in SoHo and eventually made our way down to the Lower East Side. Along Orchard Street, we found graffiti, we found vintage, we found Miley Cyrus (in front of Scarr’s, great pizza for the record) and we found Sweet Pickle Books.Â
We flocked inside to pick up a book and some pickles, as the name suggests, but we also lingered to admire the selection of $1 books out front. Here, an older man approached us, holding a large Lululemon bag and dressed head to toe in The North Face, a husky beanie atop his head. My immediate response to a bellowing figure would typically be to huddle away. My mother was always a huge proponent of “stranger danger.”
Instead, he approached us gently and asked if we read had “Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus” by John Gray. This book explores the evolution of complex, connection-based relationships. Although published in 1992, many of its sentiments still ring true today. Taking this book into account, our new pal swore us to friendship, making us promise never to let a romantic partner come between us. He swore us to love and to happiness. He swore us to finding new gelato spots in the East Village. He swore us to ethical subway transportation, unless we truly felt unsafe. He swore us to Upper East Side loyalty. He swore us to secrecy because, to this day, we have no idea who this man is.Â
After chatting outside of Sweet Pickle Books, he beckoned us to a bakery on the corner of Canal and Ludlow. Like a true New Yorker, he shuffled there without a map, rhyme or reason, and we followed like ducklings trailing their mother. I kept wondering how I was going to explain this to my mother, or whether “death by Upper East Side man” had a nice ring to it.Â
We arrived at Elbow Bakery, where this man was clearly loved, and he bought us a collection of pastries. When I offered to pay, he flashed me a smile and said that his apartment was on Park Avenue, and that years spent traveling between Paris and New York City in some realm of the fashion world gave him the footing to cover our baked goods. He spoke about his Paris adventures while handing us Chantilly cream puffs and told us to always listen to each other as he dished out almond cookies.Â
While sitting in the window of the bakery, he shared that his love of Pilates, water aerobics and formerly basketball (before his age got the best of him) shaped his commitment to his health. At the ripe age of 80, this tangent came with a touch of existentialism: Death is guaranteed later in life, so why waste one’s time dwelling on a foreign, overexplored inevitability?Â
That stuck. It still stings a little bit. It feels like a piece of gum pulling from my shoe to the ground, hearing something so obvious from a complete stranger. I often have trouble nourishing deep relationships, knowing that one day we will all meet the same inevitable fate. Why get close to someone if they are going to die? Still, there is no purpose in preemptive grief. There is no reason to mourn the future when the present is full of so much life.
In a perfect mix of lived experience and advice from a soulful stranger, this guidance serves as a reminder that small, everyday joys are necessary for inner satisfaction. I intend to live with reflection, but not overextension. I cherish the moments of bubbly conversations with my friends, one group split between two apartments, perfectly across the street from each other. The summer days floating in the ocean with my mother, debating if we should duck under waves or bodysurf them to shore. The quiet mornings in the West Village, where I would run before work, journal on the weekends or frolic on a Friday night. The Boston bricks that led me to the front of the Northeastern University sign, where I met my best friend, one of the few people who grounds me, laughs with me and knows me. I know there will come a time when we no longer share a wall, so I find comfort in hearing her fan click off in the morning or getting sick at the same time. Small moments, prominent moments, tragic moments, warming moments, they shush the impending doom echoing through my skull and down my spine.
The man I met in front of a pickle store left us at the Elbow Bread bakery with that wisdom, hopped on the Q train and headed uptown. A week later, I saw his face on Elbow’s Instagram account, holding two Chantilly cream pastries. Despite living the perfect New York moment, I never returned to that bakery or pickle store again. They remain snapshots in time, a crafted beat that offers a fresh outlook on my purpose, even though I hate pickles and don’t care for a pastry.Â