Taking stock of 2015’s “smaller” memories

We’re prone to remembering a specific year as it relates to capital “E” Events: weddings, funerals, new jobs, and new homes. For me, this past year was filled with these sorts of moments–the kind of memories that are solid, unshakable, impossible to forget.

When I took mental stock of my year, other memories pulsed too. Floating, fleeting images of beautiful vistas, honest conversations, important realizations, and carefree nights out in the city. They were swaying and scattered, but these memories also felt heavy and resonant. They begged for permanence, for me to assign them a degree of importance.

I remembered an intense realization from the fall. It came on suddenly, as I stared absentmindedly out the window of my office after a particularly defeating day. I work in a large downtown skyscraper, and from my perch, I have a view of New York Harbor, the Statue of Liberty and parts of eastern New Jersey. The sun had recently lowered itself behind the horizon, and the sky was an inky blue-black streaked with the remnants of a citrusy sunset. I looked out over the clouds above Newark and saw nearly half a dozen twinkling lights lined up in formation near the city. These were planes waiting to land at Newark airport; I’d seen them dozens of times. Today was different, though. I can’t quite explain why, but the sight of these planes–all perfectly arranged in a row, exhibiting the artistry of the modern ballet that is air travel–felt like a metaphor for the possibility of life. Hundreds of people on those 6 planes alone were coming from cities as divergent as Stockholm and Dubai and Singapore. Hundreds of thousands more were circumnavigating the globe at that exact moment, their airplanes dotting the earth like a swarm of bees around a hive. These travelers were seeing relatives, lovers, flying to new jobs, to vacation destinations, to a new home. They represented movement, and newness, and change, and discovery. They were flying over the North Pole, over treacherous terrain in the Yukon and Siberia–unforgiving landscapes which had bested explorers only a century earlier. 100 years! A yoctosecond in the eyes of the universe, and look how far we’ve come. The planes’ rote lineup took on a sudden miraculousness in my eyes. And did I mention I really REALLY hate to fly?

Granted, this wasn’t a particularly profound realization by any means, but I let the spiritedness of it carry me away. I was a part of this new humanity, this new complexity, and that put an annoying workday into perspective. I know it’s not a wedding or a funeral, but I hope that, many years from now, I can remember that day in the office and what it felt like to be my age, living in this city at this moment in time.

A thought that could have been fleeting was transformed into “memory currency.”

In the spirit of giving weight to these “smaller”, but no-less-important memories, I’ve compiled a list of New York specific-moments that helped shape my year.

Bourbon free-for-all at the closing of Char No. 4: When beloved restaurant Char No. 4 sent out an email that they were closing AND selling off all of their rare and top-shelf bourbon for $6 a pour, the city’s entire bourbon-loving community converged on their bar within the hour. People were sad to see them go, but I’d also never witnessed such earnest giddiness from adults. The bartenders, ready to empty stock, were pouring generously, from bottles that retail for hundreds–if not thousands–of dollars. Customers were ordering 2, 4 pours at a time, sampling bourbon they’d probably never again be able to savor. Everyone was trading tips and calling out favorites, lending the place a sense of intimacy rare for a bar in NYC. “It’s better than Christmas,” the preppy dude next to me and my husband said. He, like everyone else, was grinning like a toddler.

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Perfect summer day in Brooklyn: I’m not sure how one makes a carefree summer Saturday stick out among the rest. It’s just that sometimes, everything falls into place. It helps if you haven’t made elaborate plans with too-high-to-meet expectations. This particular day wasn’t all that unique, but it included a delicious brunch at Rose Water, a relaxing visit to the Brooklyn Museum, a stroll in Brooklyn Botanic Garden and a nighttime rock concert in Prospect Park. Every single destination was within a 10-15 minute walk from our apartment. It’s a cliche to say so in this era of worldwide Brooklyn obsessiveness, but the borough can be pretty fucking incredible.

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Afterwork walks on the water: It’s hard to remember now, in the dead of winter, but there was a time when this city was warm and sunny and when walks in Hudson River Park were an integral part of my commute. If I left work at just the right time, I could see a heavy blazing sun extend out over the river and blanket the city in the softest, most heavenly light. Everything and everyone caught in it looked glowing, hazy, and magical. It was a lovely dichotomy, of which New York has many: the heaviness and grandeur of these tall buildings of industry fronted by the breezy landscape of the light and the water. Soft, sensual edges and a heart of steel and stone.

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Christmas Eve in the city: We started with soup dumplings, pork shoulder and lo mein at Shanghai Cafe Deluxe, moved on to a few relaxed beers at Randolph Beer Bar nearby, walked across town to Washington Square Park for holiday revelry and Christmas carols (and a Neil Patrick Harris sighting), and then on to famed piano bar Marie’s Crisis for three hours of Broadway, Disney and Christmas sing-alongs and ended with a mezcal-and-tres-leches-cake nightcap at 24-hour Cuban diner, Coppelia. The city pulsed with a restrained, almost small-town buzz on Christmas Eve. It felt slightly off-kilter, but in way where you feel as though something out of the ordinary might happen. People were out, but they were reveling in the low-keyness of the streets. The city was almost ours that night; most nights we share it with the world. Inside Marie’s Crisis, we and an eclectic cast of characters (off-duty Broadway types, fashion and culture writers, bedecked songstresses) belted out favorites like “Suddenly Seamore” and “Seasons of Love” as though we were all fast friends who’d decided to share one large karaoke room. At Coppelia, an equally eclectic (but in a different way) crowd dug into piles of modern Latin comfort food. Some were having Christmas Eve dinner, others were on dates. The music was blaring. It was past midnight. On the subway home, the car was packed with Orthodox and Hasidic Jews–women included–frayed from a night out. They wore neon-colored club entrance wristbands. The city was theirs for a night too.

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