Fish Outta Water

I made my overseas premiere in London. On day one, I was in awe. “OH MY GOD! I could live here! “ 

There were no rodents in sight. The pigeons were oddly groomed. The people were editorial, well-dressed, and they stopped at crosswalks. The air felt fresher, the sky closer because I could actually see stars with less light pollution.

The wayfaring signs were so polite. “Cross with care”, “Mind the gap”.

I mastered the Underground within days. I did exactly what I do in New York: visit museums, bookshops, take long walks, bike, and greet strangers. The same Kalyn on a different terrain.

I crossed Abbey Road like a fangirl cliché wearing a chained leather jacket and boots.

I caught a blazing sunset on Primrose Hill and chased another fiery one on the Waterloo bridge like a Kinks rocker searching for paradise.

Somewhere between the ancient Roman architecture and modern skyscrapers I thought about how much I had closed myself off the last few years.

I became really ill after being infected with the coronavirus. My body, yes, but my mind as well. I was cagey and guarded. I was once bold, vibrant, fearless. That version of me still existed but it was coated in a thin shell of agoraphobia. I shrunk over the years to feel safe, without realizing I’d made that bargain.

London cracked that illusion open like an Easter egg.

I softened into my new surroundings and I felt that shift.

Then I came home, and let go of romanticizing it. My unfiltered opinion is that the British are impeccably well-mannered in public but I’m not buying it. New Yorkers will unapologetically scream at strangers on the street, curse your bloodline, and give you the finger when you cut them off in traffic. 

They’ll also quietly hand you tissues while you softly cry on the subway and guide tourists so they don’t get lost. If we’re going to be shitheads we’ll do it in any given scenario; we’re not always nice but we are kind.

New York City is covered in litter and dog crap, it’s loud, chaotic, and occasionally obscene, yet phenomenally brilliant. It has a spine, it has spirit, it sparkles and snarls at the same time.

The city is both the most magical land of opportunity and the darkest den of corruption. The contradictions are the point because it brings it all.

Last night I walked around downtown for a few hours. Nothing was different from how I left it, the lit buildings, green numbered street signs, stinky garbage, relentless noisy sirens, catcall mutterings from questionable characters carried on, every living block holding millions of untold stories.

Admittedly, I was a little bored of it before my trip. The sameness. When I came back, I was the one who changed. I viewed it with different eyes.

Unlike the Brits, we don’t mind the gap. We watch that mf gap. New Yorkers don’t do restrained propriety. We keep it real, we don’t always fold our napkins with our elbows off the dinner table.

An unspoken rule: you’re not a real New Yorker unless you complain, “the city’s gone downhill”, “the old New York is gone”, “the mayor’s a bum”.

The deeper truth is that we know damn well there’s nowhere else in the world we’d rather live.