It's no secret that one of the reasons why I wanted to move to New York was because of the easy access to good food. I mean, when Sam and I went to Veslka last year, it was pretty much decided that wherever Veselka was, I had to be. That and other hoop dreams brought me to the big city to reenact all manner of doe-eyed girl attempting to become cosmopolitan sort of adventures.
Actually, my first day in New York wasn't that great. I'll admit that I regretted it immediately as what I actually did hit me, and I realized that everything comforting was miles away, including my entire bookcase, my hugging pillow, and a half-eaten carton of Edy's I left in the back of the freezer. So I attempted to settle in. I unpacked, I wrote home, I walked out for a bit. I was miserable and paralyzed by this impetuous idea of mine, not daring to even think of the word "regret," so I did what I do in these situations. I took a shower.
And of course, it didn't help that the water was cold as hairless cats in a snow storm. That's just what happens when you live in a building full of families in Queens. I could barely get myself under the shower head long enough to get clean. Instead, I opted for throwing my limbs under one at a time and rushing my body through it without yelling. After two seconds, I figured I was clean enough and hopped out quickly.
I woke up the next day with the same negativity about the friends and family I left. I realized the precariousness of my position and tried to recapture all those thoughts that made me want to do this whole thing in the first place. So I woke up and researched tons of things online from badminton meet ups to writing groups. I uncovered my list of bakeries and chocolateries I wanted to visit. I had grand plans for adventuring that day, so I braved the shower again that morning. My hair was oily and my mood a little lighter, so I turned on the shower, tested to see if it would heat up (hardly), and took a step directly under the raining shower head. I decided on a more positive mindset. I also saw this as some sort of cruel initiation rite manufactured by the city.
So I roamed the city. I joined a writing group that met at the New York Public Library. I wandered into Macy's flower show. I found The Strand.
I also tried to find some of those bakeries, and man do I hurt. One of the chocolateries is actually found in a bank near Fifth Avenue, but when I tried it, I got trapped in a revolving door because of my stubbornness and the fact that it's a weekend, so this building was closed. I didn't want to give up, so I kept walking until I could find a place to consult my list. I ended up on Seventh Ave. so I opted for finding a cupcake place, called Baked by Melissa, a place that's modernly white and opaque and serves the smallest cupcakes I've ever seen. They're like tiny quarters, and I'll admit that I was actually disappointed by the idea of them at first. I thought it was New York trying to be posh, and I felt like the entire gloss of New York was ripped away for a moment, until I ate one.
I chose a peanut butter and jelly, a pancake, and a cookie dough, and man were they amazing. If these things were real cupcake sizes, you wouldn't get that perfectly proportioned bite. I gobbled the other, trying to savor each one, hardly realizing that I miserly bought three.
So, fine, New York, you're not just the glossy stuff and I'm still trying to figure out the water temperature, but you didn't let me down with those cupcakes. And that speaks volumes.