There’s a strange but very welcome phenomenon occurring on Vanderbilt Avenue in Prospect Heights: dessert destinations—some of the best in the city—keep opening up, one after another. The newcomers don’t seem deterred by the avenue’s saturation of sweets shops. And, judging by how busy most of the businesses usually are, it seems like there are plenty of sugar-loving patrons to go around. In this roundup, I’ll explore each spot, going north to south. This list focuses on cafés, bakeries, and ice cream parlors but there are also stellar desserts at the avenue’s sit-down destinations like LaLou (French-inflected wine bar), Alta Calidad (modern Mexican), Cataldo’s (old-school Italian), Faun (new American), Amorina (homey Italian/pizza), Maison Yaki (French-Japanese), and Olmstead (experimental American/tasting menu). A special shout-out, too, to Maya Taqueria, which serves up a homemade tres leches cake worth an out-of-the-way trek. All of this sweetness packed into just five (!!) blocks.

Ciao, Gloria

A just-before-the-pandemic arrival, this café specializes in what I would call Italian-inflected “new American” pastries. They have modern takes on Italian delicacies like rainbow cookies, biscotti, and bomboloni, as well as American faves like chocolate chunk cookies (multi-layered; a perfect meld of chewy and crunch), morning buns, cinnamon rolls, coffee cake, different kinds of pound cakes (try the Nutella!), and layer cakes you can get by the slice or pre-order for the full-sized. Freshly prepared all-day breakfast as well as lunch items like grain bowls and sandwiches fill out the menu. Everything here feels slightly elevated and is thoughtfully prepared.

Van Leeuwen Ice Cream

What started as an ice cream truck in 2008 has expanded to an outright ice cream empire within the boroughs and beyond. All of their ice cream flavors are creamy, rich, and incredibly tasty, if somewhat pricey. Tons of vegan flavors, too, and a divisive “Kraft Mac and Cheese” flavor that critics insist is actually “very good.”

Evi’s Bäckerei

From the hit-makers behind Olmstead and Maison Yaki/The Mayors of Vanderbilt Avenue, this brand-new Austrian-ish bakery (or, as they call it: Bäckerei) and provisions shop sells multiple varieties of schneke (German sweet rolls), the best cruller I’ve ever tasted (pick between matcha and maple) and a great chocolate chunk cookie to boot. The pastry program leans into the mad scientist-vibe of the group’s other spots, with uniquely flavored doughnuts, hand pies, croissants, and scones. A variety of fresh bread—including a red sauerkraut sourdough—is also available. An expansive indoor dining setup is scheduled to open soon, with more lunch options.

Caffé De Martini

Opened by an Italian-Colombian duo, this cozy Italian café features a menu of superstar versions of traditional delicacies like cannoli, sfogliatelle, cornetti, tiramisu, as well as linzer tortes, lemon bars, fruit tarts, and brunch dishes, like egg sandwiches and avocado toast. Everything I’ve tried here has been divine. A lush, overflowing wreath of striking faux flowers makes this spot one of the prettiest on the block.

Brooklyn High Low

An under-the-radar destination for high tea, Brooklyn High Low is all about creating a warm and inviting atmosphere, sans pretension. Choose from three price-fix options, starting at $48 pp and pick either their homey living room-style indoor dining room or their outdoor patio. No walk-ins, but perfect if you’re looking for an experiential girls’ hang and want to plan in advance.

Ample Hills Creamery

This ice cream spot was so popular when it first opened a decade ago, it had to close after a few days because the proprietors ran out of inventory. They expanded quickly, opening nearly a dozen locations all over the city. While the ownership has since changed hands, their tasty, nostalgic flavors remain. Their Nonna D’s Oatmeal Lace flavor made with “rich brown sugar cinnamon ice cream is mixed with crispy oatmeal lace cookies” has always been a favorite.

Little Cupcake Bakeshop

Need a hit of nostalgia? This mini bakery chain is brimming with old-school favorites, including a variety of cupcakes (remember those?), mini cheesecakes, cookies, puddings, layer cakes, ice box cakes, pies, bars, muffins, and lots more. Also, it’s just really darn cute, with classic neon signage and throwback decor.

R&D Foods

A go-to spot for prepared foods, sandwiches, provisions, and yes, baked goods. This is the kind of place you stop into for a sandwich and leave with an armful of treats. They specialize in killer homemade doughnuts, chocolate chip cookies, and pound cakes.

Milk Bar

While this Aussie-style café (not to be confused with the Christina Tossi dessert spot) is technically more coffee shop than bakery, their collection of croissants, biscuits, and Belgian waffles—with fresh mascarpone and berry compote!—earns them a rightful place on this list. If you’re into chai lattés, they make one of the best in the ‘hood, in my humble opinion.

Mille-Feuille Bakery Cafe

Looking for an authentic French patisserie? It doesn’t get much better than this Brooklyn outpost of Mille-Feuille. Their signature mille-feuille pastry is delicate and delectable, and the croissants are airy, light, buttery, and just plain wonderful. When I’m feeling especially indulgent, I get a Nutella twist, which, well…Nutella and pastry—how can you go wrong? And, If I’m in a rush and don’t feel like having a big lunch, their ham-and-cheese croissant sandwich is my go-to.

Dough Doughnuts

Dough Doughnuts was a bonafide phenomenon when it first opened in Bed-Stuy in 2010. It’s since expanded to Manhattan and Queens and moved its Brooklyn operation over to Vanderbilt. The doughnuts here are big and yeast-y and coated in traditional and seasonal glazes, like blood orange. The undisputed star is the eye-catching hibiscus doughnut, with its tangy hot pink glaze.

We were sent home from work in mid-March of 2020 for what was supposed to be 3 weeks. I was already feeling unwell (whether from COVID or not, I’ll never really know), and I remember thinking how hard it’d be for me to get through those weeks, how much I dreaded working from home in my loud apartment and with my awkward office area setup. I remember counting the days individually. “Well, it’s really only 2.5 weeks, because today doesn’t count, and then you have 1, 2, 3…” I thought to myself: “I can do this; I can get through this.”

During one of the first group Slack messages among my work friends, we were relaying when we thought we’d be back in the office. “Maybe Memorial Day?” someone said, and my heart sank. A few weeks later, we received an email that it wouldn’t be until September 2020 at the earliest. (Spoiler alert: we’re still not back.) 

In August of 2020, I remember walking with my husband after we had slowly started reengaging with the world and dining outdoors. “How long do you think it’d be before we can see our friends indoors and not be anxious about it?” “Maybe New Year’s?” he replied. “NEW YEAR’S? THAT long?” I couldn’t quite wrap my head around it. 

And when I first read, in early 2021, after the vaccine rollout began, that masks may be mandated through the end of the year, I was incredulous. “There’s no way! We have the vaccine now. There’s just no way it could take that long.”

The other day, I let my mind wander, as I often prevent it from doing when it comes to these matters, into “what if” territory. What if this COVID in-between place lingers for a few more years. Could I handle that? How will I get through it? And I thought, “well, I just will, I guess.” I didn’t feel resilient. Not at all. In fact, I felt defeated. And though I still consider myself a cautious optimist, my brain has become accustomed to worse-case scenarios. Time itself, which, while not rigid, had always felt set and specifically defined. And now, it has suddenly become elastic. 

Two weeks had at one point seemed unfathomable, and now two years seems much less so. The things we use to ground ourselves in time: the outings with friends, the vacations we look forward to, the commutes that take us outside the 10-foot confines of our bedroom/office have greatly diminished. To the point where it’s hard not to feel as though much of the last year has evaporated entirely.

Sometimes I think I can turn that elastic thread of time into something much more sturdy, like a rope whose grooves I can follow in order to move from one coil to the next, counting those days again, one by one. Pictures help, not for the purpose of posting on social media, but in order to capture those day-to-day pleasures—the flower patches I pass on my morning walks, the inspiring graffiti on the sidewalk, the way the light reflects off that one church during sunset. Scrolling through, I feel the days and weeks calcify. “I haven’t been biding my time,” I think. “I’ve actually been living.” And I breathe a little easier. 

I’ve lost track of the number of articles from major publications speaking to the fears of introverts or those with anxiety about the world opening back up. The framing goes like this: introverts/the anxiety-prone were happy to have a year free of social obligations; extroverts/those without anxiety are desperate for a return to a harried pre-pandemic normal. And it’s evident, from both those interviewed and the self-proclaimed introverts wholeheartedly agreeing in the comments, that many people don’t want a return to how things used to be. They were happy to no longer waste hours getting to and from a cramped office and to have a built-in excuse for staying home.

It’s true that navigating a maniacal world can be exhausting for those who are both introverted and anxious. I’m sort of the former and most definitely the latter, but I think there’s a sentiment within this dialogue that’s been overlooked. What I think many of us want, more than anything, is control over our day-to-day lives, no matter our temperament. The pandemic has created artificial parameters—we’re stuck within them no matter what our actual wants or needs are. (Well, for those of us following those parameters.) As I mentioned in my previous post, that inertia can feel comfortable, even if it doesn’t necessarily feel good. Having to make choices after a respite from decision-making is scary, no doubt. But once we get past the idea that there will, again, be choices to make, what is it that we’ll choose in order to live a more intentional life that better suits us, introvert or extrovert? (Or more likely, ambivert, a combo of the two.)

This isn’t a reported piece, so I’m extrapolating based on a sample size of 1, but I’d venture to guess many people feel as I do. More than anything, I think what we really want is to be in the driver’s seat, instead of feeling like passive participants in our own lives. Here’s what I want: to be able to decide when I can go into an office (I’m lucky in that this was a feature of my job before the pandemic), which is at least a few times a week; to be choosy about my social engagements (at my age, this is, again, not so different from my Before Times); to have more “big” plans with close friends (overnights at hotels, maybe, or mini-trips); to take more chances with my creative work; to feel less guilt about unproductive or lazy days (even if it’s a sunny summer day but I just want to nap on the couch); to have more nights where I go out for a drink or dinner alone (I’ve finally discovered after 37 years that being out, alone, where I just people watch or maybe write a poem on my phone, is how I unwind). In truth, my post-pandemic life won’t look all that different from the one I was already living, but it’ll be one imbued with a clearer, more nuanced understanding of what makes me feel truly fulfilled.

Someone else’s list may look similar to mine or it may be entirely different. The point is that the pandemic made many of us take stock of what we want and what makes us happy. And we’re no longer content to drift along based simply on the world’s and others’ expectations of us. Whether that means starting new hobbies or shedding ones that no longer spark joy, more days at home or more outings, plans with certain friends but not others or plans by ourselves, this moment is a chance to delicately upend how we’ve been living. And, gloriously, we don’t have to have to feel alone in our retooling, because in this very unique moment, everyone else is doing the same.

My patience for noise seems to has greatly diminished over the last year. “Why are they being so LOUD?” I thought, as I passed two bubbly 20-somethings laughing on the sidewalk the other day. They weren’t doing anything wrong—they were masked, happy, enjoying each others’ company, but their voices irked me in a way crowd noises haven’t, prior to this past year. Theirs were bustling-restaurant-on-a-Friday-night laughs, packed-karaoke-bar laughs. Hearty, bellow-y, and rich. Melodic, even. The kind of laughter that, if you’re in the mood for it, uplifts, but if you’re not, grates. I felt immediately guilty for my very real anger at these women who’d done absolutely nothing wrong but be happy in the very moment I passed them. (Okay, maaaaybe they were also taking up way too much sidewalk space.) The point is, I don’t want to be the sort of person who’s annoyed at sidewalk laughter; I’m not usually that person. But these are unusual times.

This past year, I’ve settled into a routine that’s felt antithetical to my nature. My life exists within a few hundred square feet, save for a daily walk, if I’m up for it. I sometimes force myself to go out in the evenings to run errands, just for the change of scenery. Weekends are different. On weekends I take long walks with a far-flung destination in mind. On weekends, I feel more like myself—my restless, antsy, gotta-keep-moving self.

As we inch closer to an opening-up, an icky sort of anxiety has crept in. The thing I’ve been waiting for most finally feels within reach, and I feel, well, ill at ease. And as annoying as it is, I realize it’s not so unusual. My husband will attest to the fact that I am a bit awkward and morose before an exciting trip, before we actually get to where we’re going. It’s like my mind can’t quite shift to vacation mode until we’ve officially arrived. We’re adaptable creatures, and we tend to acclimate fairly quickly, even to crummy situations. That’s not to say that I’m happy with my pandemic routine, but it’s become comfortable, and comfort is a scary thing to give up. A depressive malaise can start to feel like an old friend—reliable, no surprises, no drama. A post-pandemic world represents a world of near-limitless choices, and choices can feel overwhelming after months of having few of them.

It’s more than just choice, though, or having “stuff to do” outside our apartments. The pandemic has upended our relationship to others. Those not from here tend to think New York City is a place where people are closed off to one another. That’s both true and not, depending on the circumstance. In the right place, at the right time, there is no one more open than a New Yorker. But it’s also true that we’re primed to be constantly aware of our surroundings. The pandemic has replaced that awareness with fear, and it feels so wrong and unhealthy to constantly be afraid of everyone around you, especially in a city as crowded as ours. I can’t quite picture that fear dissipating, though I know it eventually will. More than restaurants or concerts or festivals, I most look forward to standing or sitting next to a fellow New Yorker (with a healthy two or three feet of space between us) on the subway or at the park and not feeling a pit in my stomach because they’re just too close.

I know my brain will morph again, back to the real me, to the choice-loving me. That all I need is a plunge into the chilly water, and then it won’t feel so scary (or chilly) anymore. Or maybe it’ll be a brand new version of me I can’t quite imagine because she and I haven’t yet been acquainted. But I know it won’t be this way forever. One day soon I’ll be indoors in a restaurant with friends or with my husband, and I’ll overhear people laughing at a nearby table and I’ll smile.

The other day I did something I rarely do: I strolled. Really slowly. Down a street. Usually, I save the strolling for the park or other serene settings, but for some reason, while walking down Fourth Street in Park Slope, I felt the urge to slow way down and take my time. (Don’t worry, fellow fast-walkers, there was no one around and the person or two who came by later I let pass.) It was right before Christmas, and the brownstones were festooned with glittering holiday decorations. Each house, with its uniquely decorated tree and warm lighting, looked more inviting than the last. I’d walked down this street many times. But I’d never really seen it quite this way. Inside a parlor-level apartment, I observed a young couple doing yoga together; inside another, a family making a spaghetti dinner. I’d noticed these scenes before, sure, but our current moment gave them a certain added resonance—they were vulnerable and a bit intimate, at a time when intimacy and connection are what many of us long for most.

A few weeks ago I decided to start capturing little weird, New York-y moments in a notebook, after feeling like I needed a reminder that while my days seemed monotonous—with me cycling through the same four walking routes day after day—they in fact weren’t really. Most were still filled with a bit of magic, like my stroll down Fourth Street. Here are a few more highlights from the month of December:

• Three elderly people standing triangulated outside an apartment building on Eastern Parkway, stoically banging pots at 7 p.m. for the healthcare workers, long after everyone else has stopped
• A doorman excitedly greeting his favorite dogs as their owner passed by: “Who’re the best boys?”
• A moving tribute outside an apartment building to a deceased resident named Ms. Denise, “The Mayor of St. John’s Place”
• An older man in a white convertible (with the top down) blasting “I Will Survive”
• A female postal worker in a USPS sweatshirt and a male worker in a UPS sweatshirt walking and laughing together (could’ve been a couple or two friends)
• Two tightrope walkers, a guy with a metal detector, and a guy boxing topless, all in Prospect Park on a frigid day
• A unicycle in the trash
• Sherry and spiked cider at a festive outdoor bar among snow piles
• A walk down a peninsula off the lake in Prospect Park I’d never known how to reach
• A brownstone with a tree covered in wigs in the front yard, which I’d noticed before; what I hadn’t noticed until this particular stroll was the additional hair decor inside

No, New York isn’t dead. Many neighborhoods, especially in Brooklyn and Queens, are still crowded, pulsating with pedestrians and reveling in an overall communal vibe. On a nice weekend night in Park Slope and Prospect Heights, nearly every single restaurant appears to have wait for outdoor seating during the prime dinner rush. But certain areas, especially parts of Manhattan, are quiet, restaurants are closing, and tourists are staying away. We need to acknowledge that currently, things are very different. 

As much as we outer borough-ers proselytize about our love for our respective neighborhoods, we cannot abandon the city’s inner core, mainly its Midtown and Wall Street areas. We’ve seen what happens in this country when business centers are left to languish; in mid-size cities, it leads to vacant streets after 5 p.m. and a snowballing avoidance of the area, depleting the city of much-needed revenue, of its allure and its buzz. Central neighborhoods are often transient, yes, but a city as big as New York (and I’d argue, most cities) still needs its transient neighborhoods, the ones reliant on office workers and tourists, though generally devoid of families. 

A city can’t just be entrenched neighborhoods. Why? When there’s no throughline, no commonality, no central point of focus, the ties are severed between neighborhoods wherein residents plant themselves where they are and rarely venture outside of a certain radius. 

I’d argue that this entrenchment and decentralization can also lead to an avoidance of public transport and an increase in car culture. Think about it, if you’re used to taking longer trips by subway, whether for work or recreation (and listen, I get that you don’t want those trips to be TOO long), you’re more likely to not see the big deal about hopping on that same subway train for 40 minutes to go to a museum or visit a friend. An entire city then becomes “yours” to traverse, versus when you take such a trip once or twice a month, and then, all of a sudden, it becomes “a thing.” There’s a certain disconnect that develops and other less communal forms of transportation become more attractive. Or, you’re less likely to venture out at all. The city turns into “the city” versus “my city.”

What’s more, a cohesive, traditional city may then morph into something closer to, well, Los Angeles. I love L.A., but it’s less a city and more a hodgepodge of neighborhoods with their own mini downtowns. And while there is a downtown and it’s becoming more vibrant in its own right, it’s not where a majority of jobs are situated or where visitors flock. It’s seemingly another neighborhood among the city’s many. 

This kind of sprawl extends the limits of a city, contributing to traffic congestion and reducing the very things that help a city thrive: foot traffic and a certain level of density.

I’ve been a Brooklyn resident for the past 13 years (not counting the additional three years I spent here as a child), and at this point, leaving would be an emotionally painful experience. I love the hundred-year-old trees, the historic brownstones, the vibrant commercial blocks in my Park Slope neighborhood. And I’ve grown accustomed to the exhale of crossing over the bridge after a day in the office, a museum excursion, or a night out downtown. Up until a few months ago, Brooklyn, for all its big-city trappings, still felt like a respite from the mania of Manhattan. Right now, there’s a bit of a role reversal, and I don’t like it. If Manhattan were to cease being itself, I know I’d like my version of Brooklyn a little less. The two are symbiotic; they need one another—the harried commuters and skyscrapers tempered by calm streets and verdant landscaping. 

It’s hard to imagine what parts of Manhattan will look like after this is over. How many office workers will return? How many tourists? Do we need to build more housing there? Encourage more families to plant roots? New York has a bit of a release valve in that office rents in the area were some of the highest in the country; an adjustment may be welcome. I’m not sure what the long-term solution is. But I’m not ready to give up on Midtown. The rest of the city shouldn’t either.

I’m restless by nature. I’ve spent my entire life feeling guilty about it, as though it meant I was a toddler who always needed the new, shiny thing; that I wasn’t actually fulfilled and thus, constantly searching; that I was too selfish to step back and enjoy the quiet moments of my privileged existence. Over the last few years or so, I’ve grown to love and appreciate this characteristic. It’s helped me tap into new experiences—writing, directing and starring in a short film, for example—and finally led me to figure out what it is that makes me happy day-to-day. This realization wasn’t just about acknowledging I had a distinct preference in how I choose to spend my free time; it was about having an active role in maintaining my mental health. When I’m feeling particularly anxious, an adventure—an little-known ethnic restaurant in a very specific neighborhood in Queens, say, or a visit to a far-flung museum, or a restorative trip to a waterside locale, or people watching in Central Park—helps me reset. (Ahem, the entire point of this blog.) It’s sort of miraculous, how much of an impact these activities have on my overall emotional wellbeing. 

When the lockdown hit, I felt unmoored, trapped in an apartment I left only in the evenings and only for short periods, often just once a week. I knew exactly what I needed to make me feel better, and it was those exact things that were unavailable to me. At the same time, I felt guilty for feeling this way, since I was in good health with a work-from-home job and a loving partner. I found it hard to detangle my emotions from one another: that guilt, the fear, despair, gratitude, anxiousness, resilience (some days), that gnawing, growing restlessness. As spring wore on, I knew I needed to refocus on what I was able to control, while allowing myself to still imagine a future where everything I loved (a solo meal of pasta at the bar of a restaurant!) would, one day, make a triumphant return, even if it might take longer than I first imagined. (I’d always subsisted on a realist’s kind of hope.) 

What has this meant? An embrace of ritual and a rejiggering of the word “adventure.”

Ritual has meant a 30-minute morning walk before I sign on to work, usually to one of 3 coffee shops to get an iced tea. It’s a deliberate reenactment of a commute, and it lends an enormous amount of structure to my day. When I come back to the apartment, I feel like I’ve “arrived” somewhere, versus when I used to just stumble over to my desk and log on. Ritual has also entailed picnic dinners in the park at least once a week, and walks to a further-away cafe for one of my favorite beverages, an Arnold Palmer. 

What about adventure? These have grown from being “small,” when the city was just beginning to open up, like picking up a to-go cocktail and walking to some benches in a nearby neighborhood or discovering new corners of our local, amazing city park, to “larger” adventures that have included bike rides down streets I’ve never seen (I’ve never ridden in the city before!) and long walks where we stumble across new street art and socially distanced stoop concerts.

Here’s what adventure has looked like these past few months: 

We take meandering walks to neighborhoods and parks we hadn’t visited in months, like this hour-long walk to Brooklyn Bridge Park where we able to take in some riverside views.

On days off, I like to stroll through Greenwood Cemetery, a stunning, enormous, historic, hillside cemetery in Greenwood Heights. I make it a point to look for the most unusual gravestones, like this monument to adorable pup Little Dace, who died in 1856.

The other day, we visited the famed Roll ‘N’ Roaster in Sheepshead Bay, a place my husband and I love. Not only does this local fast food shop make the best roast beef sandwiches in NYC, it’s also a spot where you can buy a near retail-value bottle of Moët champagne—the perfect high-low combo.

These days, I make it a point to actually step inside new businesses and see what they have to offer. While on a solo walk one summer Friday, I passed by brand-new bakery Ella Crown Bakehouse, with these honking Levain-style chocolate chip cookies on display. Reader, they were perfect.

I’ve been discovering the pleasure of new parks. Sitting and reading in a park that’s not your own feels a bit like being on vacation. This picturesque park in Cobble Hill is 90s-NYC-Nora Ephron-romcom in the best way. I picked up a lobster roll at Saint Julivert across the street and then stretched out and dug into a new book.

In the “Before Times,” we rarely spent time in Prospect Park after dark unless we were attending a concert. I never really realized how gorgeous it was at dusk, with storybook twinkling lightning bugs and a hazy, violet sky.

We’ve been eating out occasionally at establishments we love and want to support (I know there are differing ethical opinions on whether people should be eating out at all), as well as new spots in the neighborhood we hadn’t gotten around to visiting. This dinner in the lush backyard of Bricolage was stupid-good, featuring grilled pork, Vietnamese crepes and bahn mis.

Stoop concerts are happening all over Brooklyn. We’ve stumbled upon them at least three or four times. It seems emblematic of the spirit of NYC, to come across a harpist on a street you randomly happened to choose on a walking route. There’s a weekly series, Stoop Music, on President St. between 6th and 7th avenues (pictured below).

I was initially terrified of getting onto a Citibike, but after a few rides, I’m…well, slightly less terrified. It’s revealing, to see the city from this vantage point. The other day, we took a 4.5 mile ride to Williamsburg, a neighborhood we hadn’t visited in probably 7-8 months. After months of traversing mostly our own neighborhood, it felt like a real, true adventure.

Ending this list with this photo of an Arnold Palmer at a socially distanced patio, soon after outdoor dining was allowed in NYC. It wasn’t really an adventure, but this small moment felt huge at the time, in light of everything that had happened.

• 

My city—our city—is in the middle of a historic crisis. People are dying, cruelly and painfully, by the thousands. They’re dying alone, in overcrowded hospitals, attached to machines equipped to breathe for them. I cry nightly when I think of those lost, forcing myself to read the names and the backstories, a personal tribute that feels wispy and small. We tend to see a name and register it briefly, as if the person only existed in the few moments preceding their death or that they only ever were who they were at this precise point in their lives, born a cop or a sanitation worker or a banker. But each name is a full life: learning to ride a bike, a first date, a cross-country move. 

Many of us, the ones blessed to be able to do our jobs remotely, sit helplessly inside our tiny apartments as the sirens blare outside, one after the other—sometimes many all at once—hoping that the worst will soon be over. 

Over these last few weeks, despite knowing that an inundation of information would only heighten my anxiety, I’ve poured over dozens of news articles and their accompanying comments. “Of course New York City would be a hotspot,” some of the commenters said, “people live on top of each other.” While others chimed in from the comfort of their rural homes in Montana or New Hampshire, “I escaped years ago. You couldn’t pay me enough to go back.” Our density was used as a way to cast a kind of explanatory blame and create distance between us and them, the way old age and co-morbidities are being used to “other” the dying. Who would choose to live this way?, they asked. So many of us, and we’d choose it over and over. Others don’t have to understand.

And while it’s true that our density is an issue when it comes to a health crisis like a pandemic (though it should be noted that other dense cities have fared much better), I’m not, nor I imagine will I ever be, ready to dismiss the benefits of the city’s density to my own mental and emotional health. And I imagine many others feel the same way. The strangers of this city—people to whom I’ve never spoken a word—have soothed me on my lowest days. Which is why this tragedy feels especially personal to those of us who love the city so much. 

New York City is a place where you can cry in public, without judgment or even acknowledgement. Where your loneliness feels like a collective loneliness. I don’t want to be alone when I’m sad. I want to be among other people, but left alone—it’s an important distinction. I want to absorb the wonder of tourists and sweetness of new couples, in incremental ways, at my own pace. A kind of soothing self-therapy. I want to observe, to closely study the perfect imperfections of a new face, whether in the park or on the subway, and imagine the backstory of a life far removed from my own. I want to feel a part of some abstract “we”—with nothing in common between us save for the shared purpose of moving truthfully and elegantly through this life—in order to recenter my sense of self, to prevent the obsessive spiraling that can sometimes come with too much time spent looking inward. By seeing, truly seeing, others I’m better able to see and accept myself. And I can do that here, without ever getting into a car, without even leaving my neighborhood. Our arms-length intertwined-ness feels unique, especially in a country that places the highest value on personal space and expansive private property. But New Yorkers love that perceptible, constant human hum; it’s why many of us are here. And in this moment, it’s costing us. 

I’m optimistic enough to hope it won’t always be this way. That we’ll move past this crisis with the same grit we’ve drummed up for the many crises we’ve endured before. And that when (yes, when) the next pandemic hits, we’ll be better prepared, and our need for proximity will no longer feel like such a liability. 

But boy, does it hurt right now, to see the very thing we love turned against us.