This Sunday I did something radical. I told no one where I was going and I went to Riverside Park alone.
I took the 1 train uptown, which is a train that feels different from the others. Less frantic. The light comes in wide near 125th where it goes elevated, and for a second you are above the city instead of buried under it.
I got off around 116th and walked into Riverside Park with a thermos of chai I had made properly, with fresh ginger and too much sugar the way I actually like it, not the way I pretend to like it in front of my roommates.
A Sunday morning alone in Riverside Park is a specific New York luxury. Not because it is fancy. Because it is quiet, and quiet is the most expensive thing in this city.
I found a bench facing the Hudson. Runners passed. An old man was doing tai chi with the seriousness of someone conducting an orchestra. A dog stole half a bagel and its owner did not even fight it.
I drank my chai slowly. I did not check my phone for almost an hour, which for me is the equivalent of running a marathon.
Here is what I have figured out about a Sunday morning alone in Riverside Park. Being unreachable is a gift I never give myself. I am always available, always answering, always the friend who replies in nine seconds. But nobody knew where I was and it felt like breathing after holding my breath for weeks.
The Hudson was doing that grey-blue thing, boats crawling toward New Jersey. I thought of the Sabarmati back home, how my dad and I used to sit by the riverfront in the evenings not talking, just being. Rivers do that. They give you permission to be quiet.
A little girl nearby was singing a Hindi film song, badly and joyfully, and her mother was laughing. I did not know them and I loved them completely.
I stayed until the chai went cold and the sun got mean. Then I walked back to the 1, refilled, softer somehow.
Go somewhere alone this week. Tell no one. Report back only to yourself.
Love,