It started raining the way it only rains in New York in late June — no warning, no drizzle build-up, just the sky deciding all at once to empty itself onto Lexington Avenue.
I was near the 6 train at 28th Street and I had a choice: sprint down into the station and get soaked anyway, or wait it out. The 6 train was running with delays, of course, because the universe enjoys these little jokes.
So I ducked into Curry Hill instead. If you don't know, the stretch of Lexington in the high 20s is little India in Manhattan — sari shops, sweet shops, the smell of cumin hanging in the humid air like a hug.
I got two samosas from a place I've been going to since my first month in this city. The aunty behind the counter recognizes me now, which after three years feels like an achievement bigger than my actual career.
I ate them standing in the doorway watching the rain absolutely destroy everyone's evening plans. People running with newspapers over their heads. A guy in a full suit just accepting his fate, walking slowly, soaked, almost peaceful about it.
When the rain finally eased, I went down to the 6 train platform, which had become its own little ecosystem of damp, patient New Yorkers. We stood there in the underground warmth, all of us slightly defeated, all of us still here.
The 6 train eventually came, of course. It always does, eventually. That's the deal you make with this city. It will inconvenience you and then it will deliver you home, smelling faintly of samosa and rain.
I didn't mind the delay. Some of my best New York moments have happened because a train was late and I had to stand still.
The 6 train will always come. The trick is what you do while you wait.
Love,