New York Stories: ‘Fresh Air’

It’s difficult moving away from Brooklyn. Wait. Scratch that. It’s difficult choosing another place to stay when venturing to the New York City. The borough is becoming the home away from home, which is thoroughly enjoyed. Brooklyn is where I started my adulthood NYC adventures, and it will be held above the rest.

However, if you want to get technical, Bronx and Manhattan date back to my younger days, highlighting family trips to Yankee Stadium, The Museum of Natural History, and Ellis Island to name a few.

When finding a deal for $75 a night through Airbnb, moving past the location was difficult to persuade myself. So, the room was booked — simply being “a room.”

The description read “cozy bedroom on the third floor of a brownstone,” and that was no lie. The host, a 60-something jewelry maker, was eclectic and cool. There was some reluctance — my second guessing — due to her website response being abrupt and along the lines of: Yes, you can stay.

Filling out an Airbnb profile is similarly to a dating profile. Personal details about occupation, smoking habits, the reason for the trip, and more — some are optional, some are not. Being a good and honest citizen, the details of my return to The Big Apple could have been taken as overzealous.

(You cannot blame me for such excitement.)

There wasn’t an issue trying to find my way from 7th Ave. To 6th St., my luggage rolled. The brownstone eventually stood in front of me. There was hesitation going up to the door, as if my destiny awaited me, and going through those doors meant no coming back.

It only takes one time to fall in love with someplace, and then there is no turning back to a place of origin.

(En route home, Sunday, a text was sent to Rochester, letting her know of my decision to take the route home. Good to hear, she said. I thought that you might have decided to stay 😉 — people do and are allowed to figure.)

While going up the stairs, the camera would have followed us along, and a side profile would have been captured. When we got to the top of the stairs, The camera shot would have focused over my shoulder and into the room where “her girls” — my host referred to them as such — were working on product. They seemed nice, but not for dry humor.

The host was artsy and definitely had sophistication. She was ballsy enough to let people into her home to stay for days, albeit she was particular and had the process down to a science. There wasn’t a curfew, but in regard to a few organizational aspects she only had to tell and ask once.

Two of the microwaves upstairs were used for product, and one was used for actual food. They were placed in the same room as the coffee maker, supplies, and washing machine and dryer. One of the jewelry makers came up and began heating something up — don’t ask me, I don’t know — while I prepped to head out. I said hello, asked how she was, and said that she better be making something good. Heh, she replied.

OK, so my dryness can come across as awkward. When she was carrying the product, which was large enough to need both hands, at least I didn’t toss her an invisible object and shout, Catch! That would have not been pretty.

The room was cozy, simple. A bed that I was a smidgen too tall for. A desk for the laptop to sit on. A large bottle of water, a closet and coat rack, and upright lamps. I felt back in college, the final semester, when I had as small of a room with no closet.

Through the one window, my eyes looked to the pavement before going up and down the street. I only needed a place to sleep in and accomplish some work. I actually wanted to get work done, because there was desire to do get job-related tasks done. Blogging was put to the side for time back in Syracuse, during the night hours for morning posting.

Working in The Big Apple. That was something to strive for. Doing the work felt purposeful. Where I thought there was/I had no meaning, it was found. The tasks could wait for the time being, it was time to explore.

At the bottom oft the staircase, I picked up my key from the dish by the door. (That simple aspect: I felt at home.)

After figuring out how to properly lock the front doors, my Converse-covered feet double-timed it down the stairs. I took a deep breath of Brooklyn air comfortably — the baggage was put away.

I needed to venture: At Home in Brooklyn.

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