The Definitions of Summer

A bead of sweat rolls down my back.

We’re sitting outside, and someone is attempting to strike up a conversation with me, but all I can think about is how Grandma used to say, “Ladies don’t sweat; they glisten.”

Well… I must be the shiniest, most glistening being under New York’s summer sun.

Dear Grandmother,
I think I’m sweating.

Sweaty, sweat.
 Shiny faces, slimy seats.
Everyone looks like blotchy-faced zombies as they emerge from the subway during the morning commute. I pity the men, wearing their undershirts and button downs; their khaki pants and socks—Lord, help the poor gents in blazers. My spaghetti strap dress feels like one too many layers.

Humming, humming.
 AC units and open windows.
I love the sound of fans—the white noise that silences a city. It reminds me of when my sisters and I would sleepover at the Erdmann’s house, and a ceiling fan in their playroom tucked us into our dreams. Sleep often escapes me, but in that house, I was always out like a light.

Food frying.
 Sizzling, smoldering.
One staple of our city streets is the halal cart, serving up hot chicken and lamb with tzatziki-covered rice. But damn that smell in the summer, the heat wave of greasy meat that smacks you in the face. It’s too hot to eat. It’s too hot to woof down pungent lamb. Worst of all, it’s too hot to prepare food outside—where do you think all of that sweat from the man’s forehead, dicing up your roasted onions, is going?

Sunlight, stinging.
 Never ending days and electric nights.
It feels like there’s more time in the summer, perhaps because it doesn’t get dark until after 8 o’clock. So we go to work, we go to dinner, and there’s still
 more time. Time for ice cream, time for drinks. Time before the darkness gobbles up the sky. How lovely to walk home at midnight, knowing we squeezed everything and more out of each golden hour.
 
So yes…
The utility bills are higher.
Makeup melts in my room.
Candles melt in the apartment.
Bread is kept in the fridge.
Hair sticks to your face.
We sleep in sheets.
We take cold showers.
We search for central AC.

But of course (if you know me) you’ll know I wouldn’t change a thing. 

I wouldn't change the Bryant Park movies,
Or the fireflies.
The fresh fruit stands,
Or the brilliant blue skies.  

New York is viscously vibrant in the summer, and it’s during this season the city feels most alive—like a bustling, breathing creature, ready to explode.

Maybe that's how it is everywhere.
Maybe all warm nights are heavy with expectation. 
And how could you not love the suspense? 

When New York is Most Splendid

Occasionally, it’s nice to be home before 3AM.

On more recent weekends I’ve enjoyed hitting the hay by 2—but only after traipsing around the city for hours on end, using my precious liveliness to its full advantage and checking out “this or that.” (Being an energy-filled extrovert is probably quite a handicap for a writer, so I appreciate your graceful understanding.)

Except, now May is right around the corner. With this month comes boozy brunches and freckles; Central Park picnics and visiting vacationers; open windows and exasperated AC units. There are broken sunglasses, broken sandals, lazy naps, the long, extended night, and the seemingly endless light.

Our prologue of summer embraces New York City, and, if you’re perceptive enough, you can feel a tangible change in the reckless air. That electric pulse I crave all winter creeps slowly out of hibernation and explodes by mid-June.

The unfortunate thing about summer in New York is that you move so quickly for months, and then one morning you wake up and the electricity is gone. Spent. Fizzled out, like the broken streetlights on the corner of 28th and Steinway.

Now, of course, this energy I speak of does bleed slowly through some of autumn, and yes, the holidays possess their own specific spirit. But nothing taste and feels (or smells) like New York City in summertime—and I’m hopelessly addicted to this season, for better or for worse.

So maybe I’ll be home before 3AM.
Or maybe I won’t.
Or maybe we'll sit on rooftops for hours and count barely visible stars as the sun disintegrates into the moon. Time is about to blur, as it always does during this part of the year, and I’ve been waiting not-so-patiently since last October.

But a few moments ago, in the midst of a glorious late-April Saturday, I began to feel that buzzing, buzzing, buzzing pulse of the city once more...

"I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone's away. There's something very sensuous about it - overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands."

- F. Scott Fitzgerald

Signal Malfunctions

“You come here in 1995 and you could shack up, and live life, and that was that. But now? New York—it's f*cking Disney World.”

I was sitting on a Queens-bound N train, trying desperately to read my magazine. But a man, who looked like Jared Leto from Fight Club, and a woman who sounded like a mobster’s wife from the 1930’s, were far too entertaining… and loud.

“The whole city can go f*ck itself!” she chimed in with her squeaky, character voice. They both sounded like disgruntled actors, ready for a change.

“I just hate America's mentality. And New York's mentality? No, it's all goal-orientated. Everyone’s hung up on something. But then where is the community?” said Fight Club Wannabe.

Doll Face bobbed her blonde head up and down in agreement. “Yeah, yeah,” she said. I couldn’t help but think her accent was a fake, unless maybe she’d grown up in New Jersey. No one moves to New York City and suddenly sounds like a character from 42nd Street.

“When is it enough?” Doll Face continued. “I keep thinking I'm going to make it—what's making it? What is that?”

Then more quietly, she asks, “After years of the same shit, I think, ‘Is this it?’” Her question sounded like a sad, defeated statement, weighing down the air around us.

I’ve always told myself the moment I start to hate New York more than I love it, the time to leave this both exasperating and enchanting city will have presented itself. You see, NYC will save you from the horrors of boredom and normalcy. You’ll achieve more, do much, and see it all—but such frantic liberation from the dreaded “ordinary” comes at a price.

New York City will break you; she’ll beat you to the ground, eat you alive, and then spit up some redesigned version of your former being.This will happen. It is inevitable. You will lose yourself, for better or worse, for a moment or a lifetime. And yet, how you survive is sometimes based on what you were fighting for in the beginning, when you first stepped foot in Manhattan. Do we remember what that was?

I’m not sure these subway riders did.

“I could leave this damn city and have a half-decent life somewhere else,” the brilliantly blonde man continued. It was obvious something had pushed him over the edge today. His eyes were angry and a sneer lined his lips, making him appear cruel.

“You can't just keep raising prices on everything and not raise salaries. We can't live,” Fight Club said in exasperation. By now, I was no longer attempting to read my magazine and, instead, waiting for them to confirm my assumptions.

“There’s no money is Broadway!” they both said in unison, as though it was their morning mantra.

Assumptions confirmed.

“I feel guilty for eating. I SHOULDN'T feel guilty for eating... But I do because I'm over budget,” he continued. “I'm always over budget and I don't know how to save. How did we make it when we first got here!?”

I could ask myself that same question. But the days of plastic bag suitcases, and surviving off eggs in the sticky, summertime heat are maybe still memories in the making.

“I’ve just had enough.” Ironically, our train arrived at the Broadway stop in Astoria, Queens. I wondered if this sign mocked them.

“Aaaaattention, attention! Everyone, listen up!” the conductor’s voice spurred an audible groan from the entire subway car. Conductors rarely offer tired commuters any good news.

“Because of a signal malfunction at the Astoria-Ditmars stop, this train has been instructed to wait here. More details to come momentarily.”

“Damnit! Are you kidding me, New York?!” Fight Club Wannabe shouted in vain. The city probably didn’t hear him, but he shouted anyway. “This is what I’m talking about. I can’t take this! I can’t TAKE THIS,” he said.

What he really meant (and what we were all thinking) was, “There is nothing worse than knowing your complete lack of power.”

“Let’s catch a cab,” he said to ever-agreeable Doll Face. They stormed off the train with a wave of angry riders, and I followed half-intrigued, half-restless.

We were down the first set of stairs when the conductor’s voice reappeared, louder than before. “Wait a minute! Get back on this train!” he said in a (genuine) New York accent. “It’s a miracle! They fixed the problem!” he continued, with more enthusiasm than I’ve ever heard from a subway conductor.

Now, quite suddenly, something about life had become amusing to Fight Club and Doll Face. They started laughing as they ran back up the stairs, racing each other and sliding into the first subway car.

They laughed, and laughed, until there was no sound, and they were doubled over in joyful pain. I ran past their tear-streaked faces and sprinted to the next car down, wondering if, maybe, they still had some small shred of love left for this city.

Because New York can be quite a redemptive little witch, when she wants to be. But most importantly: She’ll always make you laugh.
Or cry.
Or just feel something.

Let Your Feet Do The Talking

I’m not a dancer.

I can hop around and rave at concerts, or mingle at some seedy club—but let’s be clear: I don’t know actual steps, and while occasionally I have rhythm, the lack of knowledge about professional dancing leaves me rigid and confused when I’m reluctantly pulled onto any dance floor.

(You’d think after 22 weddings and middle school cotillion, I could handle myself more gracefully. Alas…)

So please imagine my insecurity as I walked toward a swing dancing club in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. The weather was moderate, but an angry wind made the air feel more like impending winter than spring. Still, I sat outside wrapped in my red coat for a lingering moment, looking the swanky joint up and down.

“Urgh.” A small twinge of discomfort floated around my stomach.

But as soon as those butterflies appeared, I knew not dancing was no longer an option. I’ve learned over the years how to read that unsettling feeling; certain anxieties must simply become the next challenge or adventure. 

Besides, who doesn’t grow tired of the same bars and repetitive evenings? With this thought, I walked inside.

Ten or 12 friends were already circled up, learning how to “rock step” in time to a big band beat. The room was full of nervous faces, excited feet, and tiny tables illuminated with tea candles. Wine colored walls and a wooden dance floor gave the club an antique touch. The band was tuning on stage as our teacher counted out movements…

Whoops. What did he say? I should've been paying better attention, but my mind was taking in details. Thank goodness Kristin, an avid swing dancer and friend, could give me a private lesson.

“Always rock step with your right foot. It’s like the period of a sentence; it’s always the same,” she said, moving back on her heel with ease. I appreciated the grammar metaphor.

After mastering this very simple step, I rewarded myself with a glass of wine. But standing on the sidelines is dangerous at a swing club: Well-practiced dancers are always looking for partners.

“May I dance with you?” a man asked, offering his hand.

“Oh. Um, yes…” I heard myself mutter.
Simultaneously, my mind was whispering something along the lines of, “Bad [bleeping] move Brit.”

“But I actually can’t dance!” I exclaimed with true fear. He turned me in a perfectly executed twirl, and then another. “Sure you can,” he replied.

“No, really,” I said, suddenly unable to remember anything about the dumb “rock step.” But my partner just smiled. He twirled me again, and I wondered if my dress might be revealing a bit too much?

“Okay, well… uh, I’m just following you then,” I said with a little shrug.

“That’s what you’re supposed to do,” he smiled, effectively ending my anxious inner dialogue.

And may I just say… I think it was the best dance of my life. Spin, spin, rock, dip; this guy could truly dance! I became something like to a pile of spaghetti wearing a dress, and stuck closely to his every move. When we ended in a dip so low my hair touched the floor, I laughed in relief.

After both feet were back on the ground, I promptly hugged Best Dancer Ever (which may or may not be kosher) and made him promise to dance with all my friends. He gladly accepted the challenge, whisking away one girl after another.

As I sat there in the dim lighting, watching the room twist to and fro, I remembered something important: How wonderful it does, in fact, feel to let New York City take lead, and occasionally choreograph life.
Just for us.
The lucky 8.5 million.

Hum A Little Tune

There are certain songs that remind you of a specific time in life.

For example, whenever I hear Penguin Café Orchestra’s “Perpetuum,” I’m thrown back to senior year of college.

It’s well past 2am.
Three of us are slouched over laptops in Katelyn’s room.
We smell like stale coffee.
And as I glance at my lit review, I realize it’ll be another all-nighter. I won’t sleep until after my first class. So I play this upbeat, wordless song on repeat, knowing the tune will get me through the next hour of research.

Another example: During my first year in the city, “Like a G6” blared from every grimy Lower East Side bar. The beat was guaranteed to make people dance, and the lyrics were easy enough to remember. (I also recall one friend drunkenly screaming “Like a CHEESE STICK!” to a crowd of uninterested onlookers while dancing her way to another drink. Said friend shall remain anonymous…)

I remember Death Cab for Cutie’s “Expo 86” while riding a stuffy N train to Coney Island in the summer. My hair was piled on top of my head, and I happily tapped my foot to the beat, relishing in an endless Saturday.

I remember playing “Good Ol’ Fashion Nightmare” over and over again on my way to work after ending things with a boy.

I remember moving to New York and blasting The Avett Brother’s “I and Love and You,” while driving up I-95N. (But then that became too depressing, so I switched to “Empire State of Mind.”)

There was this one song by Ra Ra Riot that played in Bloomingdales – and I loved it so much, I’d avoid customers for a precious 2 minutes and 43 seconds. You could find me in the dressing room, humming along with my eyes closed.

I first listened to Mumford and Son’s new album while walking in the Flatiron District with a leather jacket and a cheeseburger.

The Great Lake Swimmers sung their soft lyrics to a frustrated writer in her kitchen throughout a gusty fall day, while The Naked and the Famous announced the arrival of spring.

M83 “owned the sky” in 2011 (and probably in 2012 too). This band produces epic I-have-to-walk-miles-to-work music.

I danced my way through the Parents magazine internship with Passion Pit, and dubstepped my way through the eight-month Huffington Post gig.

Ray Lamontagne walked with me around Washington Square Park, while Bison’s “Switzerland” played on road trips to Newark. Edward Sharpe took on the East Village and the Shins maintained their persistent role in my life via an outdated iPhone playlist.

But that’s not even half the songs, or half the stories.
In fact, I’m already forgetting some of the details.

There were plenty of lyrics; plenty of remarkable rhythms that matched my mood as I was freaking out and making out and falling down and looking up and trying to remember to laugh, laugh, laugh.

So I thought I’d write a few down… for memory’s sake.

Because each street has a cadenced beat.
Each avenue possesses a subtle symphony.
And, what music we make.