I took the A train all the way up to 190th Street on Sunday, which is so far uptown that half of Manhattan forgets it exists. The station spits you out into an elevator carved into rock like something out of a dream.
Fort Tryon Park is where I go when I need the city to be quiet. It sits at the top of Manhattan, all winding paths and old stone and gardens that don't know it's almost fall yet.
I went alone. On purpose. This is new for me.
For most of my time in New York, I treated a solo Sunday like a problem to solve. I'd text everyone. Fill it. Anything to not sit with the silence. Being alone felt like admitting I hadn't quite made it here.
But Sunday I brought a book I didn't read and a samosa I bought in Inwood and I just sat on a bench looking at the Hudson. The George Washington Bridge doing its thing in the distance.
A solo Sunday in Fort Tryon Park turns out to be one of the best things this city offers. Nobody uptown here is performing. It's grandmothers and dog walkers and one guy playing sitar badly, which felt like a sign from home.
I thought about how much I used to fear being by myself. In Ahmedabad you're never alone — the house is always full, someone is always feeding you, aloneness is nearly impossible. New York taught me solitude the hard way and then, slowly, made me love it.
I stayed until the light went orange. Took the A back down, watching the city rebuild itself station by station.
Turns out I'm decent company. Who knew.
Go north sometime. The quiet is up there waiting.
Love,