I Heart NY

You leased a white Volvo and we drove around the mountains, spent colibri weekends in Mindo, drove down the volcano highway and hiked through the Cajas fog, darted to Guayaquil and the coast, then swung north to Montañita for a weekend and ended up staying for a week. Were we compulsively wandering, hiding out in small surf towns hoping that our un-fights couldn’t find us? The reggae from the bars on sandy streets helped. The highland lakes in Cajas, the road always ahead, paved, unpaved, meandering through the Andes and falling into the emerald coast—for a time, constant movement like a kaleidoscope of bright green and blue befuddled mutual resentment.

But a black, spiked city sat at the back of my brain, the site of my humiliation; in your mind were lights strung like diamonds over all the buildings and streets, a city shared by the world. Just hearing you say “I miss New York” made me seasick, made the ground turn liquid and filled my throat with rubber.

Fuck New York. Fuck the art world, the music scene, fuck the fashion industry and all my friends there. Fuck the N/R and the 4/5/6, fuck Union Square and Museum Mile, and especially fuck napping in Strawberry Fields, waiting for you to take me out.

Your New York was twenty-seven languages on the way to work, was Frieda Kahlo on loan, was debates in the restaurants where debates actually matter. Your New York was a view from a penthouse.
I never really hated New York. It was just that one of our cities had to prevail.