I took the A train all the way up on Sunday. Past where it gets quiet, past where tourists stop, to the top of the island where Fort Tryon Park sits like a secret.
I went alone on purpose. Nobody to coordinate with, nobody to ask are you cold, are you hungry, should we go. Just me, a thermos of chai I made too sweet, and the kind of October light that turns everyone into a painting.
Fort Tryon Park in mid-October is a quiet miracle. The Hudson all silver down below. The trees doing their slow burn into orange. Old men on benches. A woman doing tai chi near the Heather Garden like she had all the time in the world, which, up there, you do.
I used to be scared of doing things alone. In Ahmedabad you're rarely alone, there's always a cousin, a neighbor, someone's someone. Solitude felt like failure. Like nobody wanted to come.
New York taught me the opposite. Spending a Sunday alone in Fort Tryon Park isn't loneliness. It's a date with myself. It's the one day a week nobody needs anything from me.
I sat on a bench overlooking the river and drank my too-sweet chai and watched a toddler lose his entire mind over a pigeon. Pure joy. I wanted to applaud.
The A train ride up is long, almost an hour from where I live, and I think that's the point. You have to really want the quiet. You have to travel for it. Most people won't go that far, which is exactly why it stays peaceful.
There's a tiny cafe near the Cloisters where I got a second coffee I didn't need. I sat outside. I read maybe four pages of my book and spent the rest of the time just watching the light move.
By the time I headed back down on the A train, the sky was doing that pink thing. I felt rinsed clean. Spending a Sunday alone in Fort Tryon Park does that. It gives you back to yourself.
Go north. Go alone. Make your chai too sweet.
Love,