way home
There’s something special about the place and time where I live, a feeling that is intensified by the speed it's all changing. My friends and I live now in this neighborhood as if there is an end date. One day we won’t belong here anymore. That knowledge colors all my experiences in Greenpoint.
It was midnight on a Friday night and I was biking home from a dinner party. It had rained earlier in the evening, and my clothes were still damp from the ride out. I raced myself home, trying to build heat against the wind, hurtling past dark shapes on the late-night bike path, crossing invisible lines through neighborhoods, counting each crossing as a leg of a straight-line journey towards my bed and the promise of sleeping soft and warm. I swept past factories and more factories and the lone Hasidic man on his way home. Then glossy plastic condos, too-bright against the night. The smell of water, the river close but invisible. Other cyclists wizzed towards me and past again, all slate shadows and blinking headlights, tunneling home in the dark.
I was on the last leg of the journey when one of the shadows on the path suddenly looked familiar. Biking equally fast in the other direction, a blur, a shadow, a face- Ange! We saw each other and lit up. Hello! Circling each other like puppies. The cold forgotten. Pulled over to the side of the road to compare notes. Where have you been? Where are you going? How tired are you? What do you think about motion graphics?
Then, coming from the south, another bicycle slowed down. We looked up to see Jeffrey, also biking home from his weekend, recognizing us. Hello! A party! He pulled his bike to the side of the path. We talked of old roommates and first massages and how much we missed the coworking space. We scratched indian summer mosquito bites. We tried to see which of our helmets was the least ugly. Then two bicycles approaching us slowed down. Hello! Two friends of Jeff, pulled over to the side of the path to laugh about coincidences and ask if we wanted to adopt a kitten. Then it was 1 am and we were five cyclists on the side of the Kent Ave bike path telling stories.
When I got home that night, it was far later than I had planned. As I settled into bed and felt sleep lift me away, I thought to myself, there is something special about this place and time where I live.
It was midnight on a Friday night and I was biking home from a dinner party. It had rained earlier in the evening, and my clothes were still damp from the ride out. I raced myself home, trying to build heat against the wind, hurtling past dark shapes on the late-night bike path, crossing invisible lines through neighborhoods, counting each crossing as a leg of a straight-line journey towards my bed and the promise of sleeping soft and warm. I swept past factories and more factories and the lone Hasidic man on his way home. Then glossy plastic condos, too-bright against the night. The smell of water, the river close but invisible. Other cyclists wizzed towards me and past again, all slate shadows and blinking headlights, tunneling home in the dark.
I was on the last leg of the journey when one of the shadows on the path suddenly looked familiar. Biking equally fast in the other direction, a blur, a shadow, a face- Ange! We saw each other and lit up. Hello! Circling each other like puppies. The cold forgotten. Pulled over to the side of the road to compare notes. Where have you been? Where are you going? How tired are you? What do you think about motion graphics?
Then, coming from the south, another bicycle slowed down. We looked up to see Jeffrey, also biking home from his weekend, recognizing us. Hello! A party! He pulled his bike to the side of the path. We talked of old roommates and first massages and how much we missed the coworking space. We scratched indian summer mosquito bites. We tried to see which of our helmets was the least ugly. Then two bicycles approaching us slowed down. Hello! Two friends of Jeff, pulled over to the side of the path to laugh about coincidences and ask if we wanted to adopt a kitten. Then it was 1 am and we were five cyclists on the side of the Kent Ave bike path telling stories.
When I got home that night, it was far later than I had planned. As I settled into bed and felt sleep lift me away, I thought to myself, there is something special about this place and time where I live.
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