Hello, New York
NYC Diaries 001
Quite some time has passed since I wrote my last Substack, namely because I decided to uproot my entire life.
I wanted to wait until I’d made the leap, and had some semblance of stability to write from. Joke’s on me because nothing is stable right now, but that is the point of moving overseas (I think?)
As of one week ago, I live in New York. Specifically, Williamsburg, which, from what I can glean, is like Manhattan’s little sister. It’s calm in a way the city is not, there are no high-rise buildings, and there’s a neighbourly sense of camaraderie – sidewalks dotted with cafes, dogs and fairy lights. As a young(ish), single person with no dog, child, or bank balance healthy enough to support shopping at Whole Foods, I feel a little out of place – more familiar with the gritty youthfulness of the East Village or old-world streets of Tribeca.
But a Brooklyn bitch I will become. And as things heat up – work, social life, weather – I can see this little pocket becoming a safe haven, away from the noise and never-ending party across the river.
There are coffee shops I can tell will become make-shift offices. Bars I know I will sit in, chatting, rapid-fire, with future friends over a martini (I fucking hope). There are parks I will wander through while FaceTiming my mum; bookstores I’ll peruse when I’m craving a paperback over a Kindle screen; street corners I’ll smooch people on and a gym I’ll hopefully visit more than once (important to set achievable goals).
In short, I can see myself building a home here, with the Manhattan skyline as a seductive backdrop – just one subway stop away.
As my friend and former editor, Ash McClatchey, once told me: “The body can’t tell the difference between good change and bad change.” So it all just feels the same: nerve-racking, uncomfortable, bad.
And yeah, you know what, it does feel kind of bad.
While I know in my bones this move was categorically A Good Thing, it was also A Big Swing, and over the past month – the numbers on my home screen’s countdown timer getting threateningly smaller – my stress levels have climbed in tandem with excitement, ricocheting between euphoria and dread in a seemingly random manner.
It’s a strange cognitive dissonance: knowing you want to be somewhere while your body behaves like you’re being hunted for sport. But as we know, in lieu of routine or regularity, anxiety stirs, and it’s human nature to cling to any form of familiarity you can find, like a leech on an unsuspecting hiker’s ankles.
So aside from a pretty hefty chunk of time spent staring into space from my spot on the sofa (willing the clock to just STOP for a second so I can catch up), or speed-talking at my bemused sister, my predominant coping mechanism was near-surgically attaching myself to my friends. I saw a different person for every meal, every day, for two full weeks before my departure, desperate to soak up as much time and love from them as possible.
Now, the inevitable exhale as I switch back into solo operations (a state I’m familiar with, having travelled a lot on my own). But my rhythmless brain is in protest.
As someone on the record saying I don’t believe in jet lag (it’s a state of mind!), I have been humbled in an appalling manner. My biological clock point-blank refuses to adapt to my new timezone, adamant I won’t feel unmoored even though that’s exactly what I am.
‘It’s friends you want?’ it asks. ‘Then it is friends you shall have.’
For almost a week, I’ve seen what life looks like as a shift worker or possum who’s decided to experiment with paying exorbitant rent. Every night I lie awake, tossing and turning until sunrise, when I finally pass out ‘til well after lunchtime, so as to stay synced with my people back home for as long as possible. When I finally wake up, at the crack of 2pm, my early-rising friends and family back home are, too.
It’s a flawed model, but a hard pattern to break without high-strength sleeping tablets.
When I tear myself away from my phone, staring at the ceiling in the dark, I feel like a kid sent off to bed while her parents host a dinner party downstairs: desperately listening for any mention of my whereabouts so as to have an excuse to get up and poke my head through the bannisters again.
When I do finally make it into the realm of the unconscious, it’s almost not even worth it.
In a particularly cruel act of masochism, I’ve spent the last seven nights dreaming exclusively of every man with whom I’ve ever shared romantic liaisons – one after the other, like some sort of exorcism.
On the plane, mind addled with three-quarters of a Restavit, my knees up near my chin in the window seat. The night I arrived, in a vibeless hotel with the low hum of a generator serving as a tepid soundtrack. The first night in my new apartment, when I slept from 7pm-12am with all my clothes and the lights still on – then again when I finally got back to sleep at dawn.
For every hour of rest I squeeze out of my subconscious, I’m rewarded with a feature-length film of the men I’ve gifted precious time to over the years. Genre? Horror.
The man from Tasmania I matched with on a dating app three years ago. The first date I went on after splitting with my ex boyfriend (whose name I fully cannot remember), with whom I shared three drinks and then engaged in a polite mutual ghosting. The lawyer who told me his time at college would, hands-down, be the best years of his life. People I can barely recall, yet have somehow booked a starring role in my nightmares.
Then I wake up, in a blazing heat, under my new, ultra-warm quilt, 10 inches off my bedroom floor, wondering what the hell I just lived through.
It’s a veritable baptism of fire. My brain’s reminder of all the nonsense I got up to at home, in preparation for what’s to come. Or perhaps my mind’s just clearing out the clutter, making way for new memories.
Either way, the fight-or-flight response only wanes once the perceived threat passes –once you feel safe again, once life becomes a little more predictable. I’m hoping a steady stream of bagels and drip coffee are the antidote my nervous system is after, and that this is all just part of the purge – shedding my skin, so to speak.
Or maybe a week alone was enough to send me off the deep end and you’re all about to watch it, live, via a Kanye-esque Instagram meltdown. Only time will tell.
So yes, it’s been a strange first week of my new life. But it’s also been a wonderful one. All I’ve wanted, since, as my sister put it, the first time I put heels and makeup on, was to escape to a Big City. And now here I am.
The photos I’ve saved and used as lock screen wallpapers are right in front of me. The East Coast polar blast I keep reading about is whipping at my own face. And as much as I feel like a fish out of water, I know I’ll think fondly of these early days, when a trip to Trader Joe’s was the most high-octane part of my day.
America is a strange place right now, and the world doesn’t feel particularly bright, either. But New York is as weird and wonderful as its always been – as are New Yorkers.
The stereotype that Americans are annoying is mostly untrue (especially in the case of New Yorkers), they’re just annoying out of context. In the same way Australians are fucking insufferable in Bali, Americans are intolerable in Paris. In New York, their accents blend together in a comforting bass line, only distinguishable when someone yells at a cab or, like the Williamsburg Screamer (who I encountered the first time the other night) just yells for no reason at all.
There is so much I like about this city. I like that the guys working in Joe’s pizza call me sweetheart (in an entirely non-threatening manner) and that none of them are actually called Joe.
I like that the guy I sat next to before demolishing my cheese slice – who said “ciao” to his mum on the phone – replied with “right on” when I asked him to pass me the chilli flakes.
I like how nice the woman is who bags my box of instant oats at Whole Foods, and that girls on the street will stop to compliment each other on their outfits, even when they’ve never met.
I like that Americans say they’re going to “blow off some steam” when they’re heading out for drinks, like they’re a bubbling pot about to boil over, sending starchy water all over a pristine cooktop.
I like that one day of sun was enough for the crocuses and daffodils to start blooming, and that temperatures above 12°C are enough for people to flock to Washington Square Park, tops rolled up to expose their stomachs to the sky.
I don’t like the smell of weed that sneaks into my room at midnight when my neighbour gets home. Not because I’m a narc, but because weed makes me crazy and it reminds me of running off into the dark Ku-ring-gai National Park, my boyfriend in hot pursuit, at age 20.
I also don’t like that my overly-enthusiastic hairdresser gave me an unsolicited pixie cut the week of my move. But again, a me problem.
All in all, I like New York, a lot. And mostly I love that I live here now. I look forward to who I will become, the friends I’ll stay connected with, and the satanic men I’ll leave behind.
There’s so much to come – so stay tuned.
In the meantime, if you’ve ever thought, “Wow, I just need to hear Holly talking shit on a Thursday morning,” you’re in luck. My new podcast, Hot to Me, hosted alongside my former housemate Caito, is now live. Listen here – 5-star reviews and ego-boosting comments only, thanks.
H x
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