I left my apartment this morning in linen pants and a top so thin it might as well have been a suggestion. Bad call.
September in New York doesn't warn you. Yesterday it was 84 degrees and I was buying an iced coffee I didn't need. This morning I stepped onto the 6 train at Astor Place and the whole car had that particular smell of people who dressed for the wrong season.
Everyone looked confused. A man in shorts. A woman in a proper wool coat, smug and prepared. Me, somewhere in the tragic middle, clutching my tote like it could keep me warm.
The first cold morning always feels like a small betrayal. The city just decides, without a group chat, that summer is over.
Back home in Ahmedabad, seasons announce themselves loudly. The monsoon arrives like a Bollywood entrance — thunder, drama, everyone running. Here, September just slips a cold hand down your spine on a Tuesday and says nothing.
By the time I got off at 33rd, the sun had softened everything gold. There's a specific light this time of year that makes even the ugliest stretch of Park Avenue South look like a film still.
I bought a hot chai from the cart near my building — the guy knows me now, gives me extra cardamom without asking. Small mercies.
The first cold morning also means the fun part is coming. Layering season. Coats. The one time of year New York dresses better than any city on earth.
I'll be prepared tomorrow. Probably.
Who am I kidding. See you in linen on the 6.
Love,