I took the N to Astoria on Sunday with a thermos of chai and no plan whatsoever.
This is a radical act for me. I plan everything. I plan my planning. But something about August makes me want to be a person who just sits in Astoria Park and lets time leak out of me.
I spread out a blanket I borrowed from my roommate near the water, under the Hell Gate Bridge, which is somehow both enormous and completely ignored by everyone around it. Kids were doing cannonballs into the pool. Uncles were playing cards with the seriousness of a Supreme Court hearing.
I poured the chai. I made it that morning the proper way, boiled the ginger, cracked the cardamom, let it get too strong on purpose. It tasted like every lazy Sunday I ever had at home.
Astoria Park does this thing at golden hour where the light comes off the East River and hits the bridge and everyone quietly gets more beautiful. A grandmother two blankets over was feeding pigeons and gossiping in Greek. Somewhere a bhangra beat competed with a reggaeton speaker. Nobody won. Everybody won.
I didn't take a single photo for an hour. Then I panicked and took eleven, which is the most me thing I've ever done.
Here's what I've decided about Astoria Park. It's the antidote to the version of New York that always wants you to be productive, networking, becoming something. Here you're allowed to just be a girl with a thermos watching the river do absolutely nothing.
I stayed till the light went blue. My chai went cold. I didn't care.
The train home was empty and I felt full.
Some Sundays the whole point is to have no point at all.
Love,