There is a delicious anonymity in traveling alone; a stranger among strangers, each with a unique purpose of destination, connected only for an instant or a few hours in life’s commute from here to there.
As an introvert, in general and on most occasions, I loathe the exercise of small talk. Socializing exhausts me. But put me on a plane, in an airport bar or in line at a coffee shop in any random city, and it’s game on for chit-chat. I can even become, dare I say it, loquacious and maybe even charming.
It took me a while to figure out why: It’s the anonymity.
With anonymity comes the freedom from the fear of having to relive a conversation later on to re-evaluate, with dread, that maybe I’ve said the wrong thing or offended someone. The freedom from having to invest in remembering someone’s birthday or their kids’ names. Or what exactly they do for a living.
The freedom to just “be” in the moment shooting the shit, enjoying the scenery unfolding around me. The freedom to be a spy, watching and delightfully imagining other peoples’ lives.
Which is part of the reason I ❤️ New York.
It is easy to be anonymous in New York, and for someone like me, it’s amazing to be anonymous in New York. Where else on Earth can someone be amongst millions of beautiful, fashionable, exotic and wonderfully diverse people. And electric excitement. And noise. And chaos.
And at the same time be profoundly and perfectly alone.
So this is what I like to do when I’m in New York (and other cities, by the way, but especially in New York). I like to put on my AirPods and dial up whatever music fits my mood. Then I hit the street with my own soundtrack flowing into my brain; the city becoming the backdrop in the private show I’m creating for myself.
The Lovers in the Rain
As I walk up 5th Avenue beside Central Park on a gloomy drizzly afternoon, I’m listening to “Amazing” by the One eskimO. I watch the drama of two lovers huddled under a shared umbrella, one of his arms clutched around her waist, the other keeping the umbrella steady as they walk in rhythm. It looks like new love. They don’t mind the rain and chill. They’re laughing, and they welcome the warmth of one another as their strides match to ensure their bodies are as close as possible. Where are they going, I wonder? An aunt’s birthday, perhaps? I notice she’s carrying a yellow gift bag, tucked close to keep it dry. Yes, that’s it, that’s the story. It will be a lovely party and a day they’ll remember later when they reminisce about love’s early days.
The Old Friends
At the Met, I walk slowly, savoring this hallowed place and its hallowed contents. I watch two elderly men, both bent over from age’s cruel toll on their spines. Walking is not easy for them, and there is a lot of ground to cover at this fantastic place where one gallery opens into yet another gallery, and another and another, like a mirror reflecting on the infinity of another mirror.
The three of us have wandered into the same 19th Century European gallery, and they hover very near the Picasso that found a place in my heart: Head of a Woman. I think these men have waited a long time to come to the Met. I think they saved their money for the trip and the admission ticket and the expense of New York.
I’m listening to “The Blower’s Daughter” by Damien Rice.
I think they are friends who live a long way apart and have had a shared longtime dream to one day explore this treasure trove of art, and they have cashed in on their dream. They were art students together many years ago. They talk. They admire. They move carefully from one piece to the next, giving each its proper homage. I think they will have a nice dinner a few blocks away and they’ll say their good-byes knowing they had the experience they wanted together. One day one of them will close his eyes for the last time and fall asleep dreaming of that day with his friend at the Met, when they saw the work of the masters as they’d always planned to do.
The Family
Like a hungry hunter, I stalk 9th Avenue, skirting Hell’s Kitchen in search of the right slice of pizza. I open the door to Fiorentina Pizzeria, greeted by garish too-bright fluorescent lights and hugged by the smell of hot pizza slathered in tangy sauce and basil and bubbling mozzarella. The place is packed, and taking up most of the table space in the back of the room is a large family. There must be 10 of them, mom and dad and kids of all ages, enjoying eating away from their kitchen table with glee.
I recognize the hand-me-downs and rareness of the experience from my own childhood. It’s a special occasion, because it’s expensive to eat out. They’re celebrating something. Someone got good news worth the splurge. It’s a happy moment I’m glad to witness from a few tables away, stealing greedy glances at the joy. I’m listening to “My Repair” by the Hot Gates. I’m remembering a dinner when I was 12 at Red Lobster, an evening when there was good news worth the splurge, worth dressing up and going out.
The family files out the door parading in front of me, all grins and satisfaction and it makes me smile. I see the father clap the shoulder of a young man in proud affirmation, and I think this was the source of the celebration. His son. Good job, young man, I think to myself.
The Tourists in Time’s Square
Time’s Square assaults my senses in too many people and too many lights. I love it. The tourists and the nuttiness of it all. People newly arrived from every nook and cranny of the world—no locals—all hyped up and overstimulated by the neon buzz of the flashing screens. They want to see it all: Broadway, the Late Show, Magnolia Bakery, the Naked Cowboy.
I listen to “Beggin” by Maneskin, and I bop and weave through the crowd of dazed and confused people. At an intersection where I wait for the signal to walk, I spy a middle aged couple snapping a selfi with the Time’s signature screen tower illuminated behind them. They’re from the Midwest, I think , and they waited for their kids to grow up and leave the house and their bank account so they could finally afford the trip they always wanted to take. They booked tickets to see the “Book of Mormon” and “Kinky Boots” well in advance, as well as a reservation at Sardi’s. They will leave the city with matching “I ❤️ New York” T-shirts and a secret, knowing glance they’ll exchange in the future to inspire a spark.
The Woman Walking Alone in New York
I walk past an empty Radio City sidewalk at midnight. A sidewalk that just hours earlier was crammed with people eager to catch a glimpse of Little Nas X or participate in Jimmy Fallon’s shenanigans. But now it’s quiet, as I watch a woman, still dressed in a business-smart outfit from a day at the office, walking with purpose toward her destination. Home. I think. I’m listening to “Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby” by the Counting Crows.
She’s going home to her apartment. To the tiny space in one of thousands upon thousands of buildings—the space that’s just hers in this enormous, overpopulated city. It’s been a long day, and when her key snaps the door open and she steps inside, she’ll breathe a brief sigh of relief. It’s been a good day. She’s done well and performed as needed, and she’ll do it all again tomorrow.
But for now, she is glad to be home. To kick her shoes off, look out the window into the bright bright lights of New York, and be anonymous in her city.
