Manhattan, NY, April 27, 2020
I miss New York. I walk the streets that only a few weeks ago were bustling with throngs of people, and I feel phantom pain: that pain amputees feel where their limb used to be; a sensation, irritation or itch.
There are many things that are part of this nostalgia: the spiraling lineup at the most trendy pasty shops and delis; the brunch at restaurants people so eagerly await on weekends; the bars that are so dedicated to outdo each other over who has the best martini.
The happy chaotic commotion at the theater district near Times Square, where the throngs of people who had just seen a Broadway show would blend with everyone, along with the whining over the lack of available cabs; the crowded lines of those who stay well after the show is over, determined to get an autograph of one the performers as they leave through the back door; the laid back reading of the New York Times' culture section in search of the next big thing; the cyan fumes that hovers above Central Park during the summer, creating a dream: the joggers, and the travelers and the many half-naked New Yorkers who lie on the prickly grass.
Heck, I even miss Times Square's most crowded and ugly days! But the nostalgia is bigger than the many memories, the fragments of the vibrant urban life that had been drastically truncated about a month ago and now seem like they took place in a previous life.
I miss the city itself like someone would miss a lover or a close friend you have unfortunately had to part ways with. Some 20 years ago New York welcomed me with open arms, and it has since confided with me some of its most well-kept secrets, those that it only tells those who truly love it.
The fact that I had arrived wearing my Hebrew spectacles – both the contemporary and outdated Hebrew – has helped me look at it through different lenses, unlike the masses that descend on the city.
My New York, even though historically speaking it is not that ancient, has a rich history, it has become mythical in our collective memory, and I would even dare say, it can be considered a biblical city because of its layers upon layers of meaning, memory, local history and stories that have accumulated over the many years there.
New York lives in its own warped timezone, on the same level as other ancient and holy cities such as Rome and Jerusalem. I am worried that the shock it has experienced by screeching to a halt despite being the city that never sleeps will result in some part of it dying forever. Its very soul might change and disappear.
That special makeup of my New York is still delicate and fragile like a butterfly's wings; touch it without care, and you will destroy the city's bewitching beauty and its singularity.
I end this entry in the Corona Diaries with anxiety and anticipation. On the one hand, I am full of great child-like optimism and eagerness to see the city wake up from this nightmare, shake off its painful vestiges and continue going about its business as if nothing had happened. On the other hand, the knowledge that this is impractical, that what had made New York so special is now forever gone, is killing me from inside.
