The Astoria Park pool closed for the season this week and it made me unreasonably sad. I never even swam in it. But there's something about a pool draining that just feels like the year exhaling.
I took the N out to Astoria on Sunday with no plan. This is my new favorite thing — going to a neighborhood I don't live in and just existing there. Nobody knows me in Astoria. It's freeing.
A Sunday alone at Astoria Park is its own kind of therapy. I sat on the grass near the water where you can see the Hell Gate Bridge, that big beautiful red arch, and the Triborough behind it. There were families with picnics. A man doing tai chi. Two kids fighting over a scooter with the passion of a Bollywood climax.
I grabbed a samosa from a little spot on 30th Avenue on the way in and ate it on a bench like it was a five-course meal. It was better than a five-course meal. Fight me.
I think what I love about a Sunday alone at Astoria Park is that nobody expects anything from you there. Back home, alone-time was suspicious. "Why is she sitting by herself? Is she okay?" Here, being alone in a park on a Sunday is basically a personality.
The light started going gold around six. That specific New York September gold that hits the water and makes everything look like a memory before it's even over.
I didn't take a photo. I just watched the bridge for a while and let the season change without me trying to stop it.
Go sit somewhere no one knows you. It's cheaper than therapy.
Love,