It is disgustingly hot in New York right now and I have never loved this city more.
I walked through Harlem on Sunday, up Frederick Douglass Boulevard, and the whole neighborhood was outside. It's too hot to be inside. Everyone knows this. The AC in my apartment is a rumor, a suggestion, a small unit that hums and gives up.
So you go outside, where it's also hot, but at least there's company.
The fire hydrant on the corner was open — someone had cracked it with that special wrench — and kids were screaming through the spray in their clothes, shoes and all. A woman on a stoop was playing old soul music from a speaker. Someone was selling mango slices with chili and lime from a cart, and I bought one because it reminded me of the raw mango with salt we ate as kids back home.
August heat in Harlem is loud and generous. It doesn't ask you to be productive. It just asks you to survive it together.
I've noticed New York gets more honest in extreme weather. In the summer heat, everyone loosens. The city stops pretending it's cool and composed. Sweat is the great equalizer. The Wall Street guy and the kid on the skateboard are both melting, both looking for shade, both eyeing the same slice of pizza.
Back in Ahmedabad, summer meant hiding indoors until evening, then the whole city coming alive after dark. Here it's different. Here the heat pushes everyone out at once, into parks and stoops and open hydrants, and it feels like the whole borough is throwing one exhausted, sweaty party.
I sat on a bench in St. Nicholas Park and watched two old men play chess, unbothered, sweat glistening, completely at peace. I want to be them when I grow up.
The August heat will break soon. September will come and everyone will grab their trench coats and pretend they never screamed through a fire hydrant.
But for now, the city is sticky and slow and beautiful.
Let yourself melt a little. It's allowed.
Love,