The first cold morning on the J train snuck up on me like a scam.
Monday I left my apartment in a linen shirt because September in New York had spent six weeks pretending to be July. Then the wind came off the East River as the J crossed the Williamsburg Bridge and I felt it in my bones, my dignity, my un-moisturized ankles.
Everyone on the platform at Marcy Avenue had that same betrayed look. Like the city had quietly changed the rules overnight and forgot to text us.
The view from the bridge, though. That never gets old. The skyline in that grey-blue light, the sun trying its best. I always think of that Kal Ho Naa Ho energy, Manhattan looking impossibly cinematic while I'm just trying not to spill my coffee.
Speaking of. I got off at Essex and ducked into a tiny spot on Ludlow for a cortado because my body demanded warmth as compensation for the trauma. Three dollars fifty. Worth every cent of my dwindling savings.
Here is what nobody tells you about the first cold morning on the J train: it's actually a gift. It means the summer sweat era is ending. It means layering season, my personal Olympics. It means the city stops smelling like hot garbage and starts smelling like roasted nuts from the carts and something almost like nostalgia.
By the time I got to work my nose was pink and my mood was, against all odds, good. There's a specific joy in the first cold that you forget every single year and rediscover like it's brand new.
My mummy called while I was walking and asked if I was wearing something warm. I lied. I said yes. Some traditions are sacred.
Tomorrow I'm bringing a jacket. Probably. Ask me again when it's July in September.
Wear the sweater. Trust the wind.
Love,