New York City drop-out

If you told me 10 years ago that I’d leave New York City for Central Florida, I would’ve politely told you to go fuck yourself.

When I was little, my mom would take us to work with her a lot. Excitement filled my body as we climbed the steps of the Union Square station, looking forward to the breakfast I only ever ate in the city: a plain toasted bagel with so much butter it would seep out of the brown paper bag, and a Yoo-hoo to wash it down. I fell in love with the chaos, the smells, and the grime of The Village. It felt more like home to me than our Bensonhurst apartment did. I’d dream of my future as an adult living in the city and swore to my mother that I’d someday make it happen.

As I grew older, the dream felt increasingly real. Going to school in Soho, doing makeup for Broadway Bares, watching the Rangers play at MSG more times than I can count. Even the less glamorous moments (like sweating on a packed express bus to Staten Island or dodging catcalls from sleazy construction workers) held a strange kind of nostalgia. It was all part of the New York experience.

When my parents decided to move to Florida for work, my mom would beg me to follow. “Maybe if you were going somewhere cool like Miami,” I’d joke. After spending COVID indoors, I was so excited to get to Florida that I hadn’t stopped to realize I was leaving my childhood dreams behind.

The week before we made our move, my husband and I headed to our favorite restaurant in Hoboken. We were running early, as usual, and decided to go for one last walk along Sinatra Drive. The views of New York City from Hudson County, New Jersey, are worth more than living in the city itself, and you can’t convince me otherwise.

The Hoboken waterfront was the backdrop to our first year together, back when things were easier. Before pandemics and furloughs and dying parents. Back when our biggest worry was where to eat dinner that night. Only three years had passed, yet I felt so much older.

As we approached the pier where we’d shared our first-date kiss, a lump formed in my throat. Two kids in love, no idea what was ahead of them.

The February wind stung my cheeks as I avoided eye contact with the Manhattan skyline. It hurt too much to look at it. I could practically hear the city screaming at me across the Hudson River. That’s it? You just gave up?

And Frankie himself, singing: If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere.

But I… didn’t make it.