a postcard

full of things no one told me.  

a friend of a friend moved to the city this week and i've been pondering what this means for her by way of, nearly two years ago now, all that it meant for me. how unprepared i was for the many tiny details of a life here; how nothing anyone could have said would have readied me anyway.  

from what i can tell, building a life here, like anywhere else, i suppose, is full of steps and missteps; sometimes more questions than answers. the fight for the job; the hunt for the home; the finding of place. the sounds, the strangers, the conditions of anonymity. and slowly, steadily, surely, it comes: often in bits, sometimes in pieces, the arsenal of beautiful details that define life in new york. things that no one could have told me; things i would rather have discovered on my own anyway. 

  like that nothing in this world smells so lovely as new york after the rain. that the b train doesn't come on weekends. that i should walk everywhere, or risk missing it. that restaurants are often cash-only. that winter would suit me. that i'd think the subway strangely beautiful. that sometimes i'd need to escape the city for a weekend. that i'd tear up at first sight of the skyline on the way back. that i don't need as much space as i once thought. that sidewalk flower stands would take my breath away. that i'd befriend souls i couldn't have dreamed up. that i'd fall wildly, unabashedly in love with this place. that i might never leave.