My AC died on Monday, the first real day of the heat wave, because of course it did. The universe has excellent comedic timing and no follow-through on customer service.
I live on the fifth floor of a walkup in Astoria, which in July becomes something between a tandoor and a personal punishment. By noon my apartment was 91 degrees. By 3PM I had considered moving to the bottom of the East River.
Here is my heat wave survival guide, learned the hard way over seven days.
The bodega on 31st Street becomes your church. You go in for a Poland Spring and you stand in the beverage cooler section pretending to deliberate for a socially acceptable four minutes, letting the cold wrap around you. The guy behind the counter knows exactly what you're doing. He lets you. This is the real New York social contract.
Iced coffee is not a drink, it's a medical intervention. I made it at home in a mason jar because $6 for an oat milk anything felt insane on top of everything else. I put too much ice. There is no such thing as too much ice.
Astoria Park by the water is where everyone flees. The whole neighborhood shows up, aunties on benches, kids in the fountain, a guy playing music from a speaker the size of a mini fridge. Under the Hell Gate Bridge there's actual breeze. It felt like the ghats back home, everyone gathered near the water because the water is the only thing that forgives you in the heat.
I slept with a wet towel and a box fan pointed directly at my soul. I ate mostly curd rice, the way my mother makes it in Gujarat summers, cool and simple and correct.
The heat wave broke Thursday night with a thunderstorm so dramatic it deserved its own soundtrack. I stood at my window and watched the rain and felt, briefly, like the main character.
My AC is still broken. The building guy says Monday, which in super-time means possibly never.
But I survived my first real Astoria heat wave, ice cube by ice cube.
In July, the freezer is the only friend who never lets you down.
Love,