I went to the DUMBO waterfront by myself on Wednesday evening and it turned out to be the best decision of my week.
I took the F to York Street, walked down the cobblestones that ruin every pair of shoes I own, and got the classic photo spot where the Manhattan Bridge frames the Empire State Building right down the middle of Washington Street. There were fourteen couples doing the exact same photo. I did not do the photo. I felt very evolved about this.
Here is the thing about the DUMBO waterfront: everyone treats it like a couple's destination or a photo op, but at golden hour, alone, with an iced coffee going watery in your hand, it becomes something else entirely.
I sat on the rocks at Pebble Beach — the tiny sliver of actual beach under the bridge — and watched the light do that thing over the water. Pink, then gold, then the color of a mango that isn't quite ripe. The bridge rumbling with the Q every few minutes. A dad teaching his kid to skip stones and failing.
A year ago I could not sit alone anywhere. I'd fill it with my phone or with plans or with texting someone "omg wish you were here." I used to think being alone in a beautiful place was a kind of failure, like a scene from a Bollywood movie where the heroine is sad in the rain but nobody comes.
But the DUMBO waterfront at sunset, by myself, felt like the opposite. Nobody came and I didn't need anyone to. I just had the light and the bridge and my melting coffee.
I stayed until it got dark and the skyline lit up across the river like someone had strung fairy lights across all of Manhattan. Then I walked back over the cobblestones, ankles betraying me, completely content.
Turns out the view is still the view even when there's no one to turn to and say wow.
Go somewhere pretty alone this week. See what happens.
Love,