The AC died Wednesday during the heatwave, and so, briefly, did my will to live.
My apartment in Astoria became a tandoor. I tried everything. Frozen washcloth on the neck. Lying very still on the floor like a chapati. Nothing.
So I did what New York taught me. I went outside and joined the stoop.
The Astoria heatwave had pulled my entire building out onto the steps like the city had shaken us out of a jar. The Greek uncle from the second floor with his folding chair. The two roommates from 3B who I'd nodded at for a year without speaking. A kid running a sprinkler on the sidewalk while his mom watched from the window.
Somebody had watermelon. Somebody always has watermelon during an Astoria heatwave. It got passed down the steps, sticky and dripping, no plates, no rules.
We sat there until midnight on Ditmars Boulevard, the N train rumbling overhead, the air still thick as soup. The Greek uncle told a story about a summer blackout in 1977 that may have been entirely invented. Nobody minded.
I mentioned that in Ahmedabad, when it gets this hot, the whole neighbourhood sleeps on terraces under the stars. The kid's mom said her family in Athens did the same. The roommates said their grandparents in Puerto Rico, also the same.
Four countries on one Queens stoop, all agreeing that heat is best survived together.
The Astoria heatwave was miserable. It was also one of the best nights I've had all year, which is a sentence that only makes sense in New York.
We finally went in when the watermelon ran out. I learned the roommates' names. Sara and Mira. A year of nodding, undone by one broken air conditioner.
The AC got fixed Thursday. I almost wish it hadn't.
Sometimes the city has to break a little to bring you outside.
Love,