The first cold morning on the 1 train snuck up on me like a bill I forgot I owed.
I walked out of my building on 145th in a linen shirt because I am, at my core, an optimist and also a fool. The wind off the Hudson had opinions. My arms had goosebumps by the time I reached the station.
I've lived in Harlem for two years now and I still forget that September in New York does not negotiate. One day it's sticky and the bodega guy on Broadway is fanning himself with a lottery ticket. The next, everyone on the platform has their hands shoved in their pockets, shoulders up by their ears.
The first cold morning on the 1 train has a specific smell. Coffee, wet metal, someone's very ambitious breakfast sandwich. I stood between two strangers and felt weirdly held by it.
Back home in Ahmedabad, we don't really get this. We get one week of pretending it's winter, everyone in monkey caps and sweaters over cotton kurtas, Mummy insisting I drink haldi doodh like it's a shield. Here the cold means business. Here I have to actually own a coat.
I got off at Times Square to transfer and let myself be a tourist for thirty seconds. Looked up. The screens, the noise, the absurd everything of it. I moved here to be exactly in the middle of all that noise and some mornings I still can't believe I get to.
By the time I reached the office my nose was running and my mood was, inexplicably, excellent. There's something about the season turning that makes me feel like the year is finally paying attention.
The first cold morning on the 1 train is basically New York clearing its throat before saying something. I don't know what it's about to say yet.
But I bought a chai from the cart on 7th Avenue and decided to listen.
Come find me when the coats come out.
Love,