Welcome to New York: A Reflection on the City of Dreams

Everyone knows New York: you've heard about it, dreamt about it, seen it on TV. Taylor Swift even wrote a song about it.

Walkin' through the crowd, the village is a-glow / Kaleidoscope of loud heartbeats under coats / Everybody here wanted something more / Searchin' for a sound we hadn't heard before

~ "Welcome to New York" (2014)

New York is exciting! It's big and braggadocious and bold!

I have to admit, even living right next door in Toronto, New York was never on my radar personally. I think something in me knew from the start it wasn't the right place – for my wellness, for my career, whatever.

As much as it shines – literally – on the outside, there's just as much dirt and grit underneath... which isn't necessarily a bad thing. New York has been known to capture the hearts and hopes of many; it's just not the right type of nitty-gritty for me.

That doesn't mean I wasn't excited to see New York City up close and personal! It'd been a long-time goal of mine to attend the Martha Graham Dance Intensive, ever since I spent a year formally training in Graham under the tutelage of a direct disciple of Martha Graham in dance school.

My friends and I talked about it sometimes, about going together. After graduation, life got in the way – I tore my ACL right before my final year, and I underwent surgery for it soon after getting my degree. Rehab took over, commitments took over, and Graham fell to the wayside. My friends were busy developing their own identities in the adult world.

Since re-igniting my passion for dance and travel at the PPP retreat in Portugal, I was determined to put this intensive back on track. After several dance trips around Europe, it was time. I'd planned my schedule and given my temporary leave. I didn't want to wait anymore to cross my wishes off my list.

So, I packed my bags and flew off to New York – as always, solo.

If you asked me if I felt lonely being alone, I'd say, "It's nuanced."

New York City is not for the faint of heart. There's always something going on around every corner, in every season. "Quietude" is not the way of life here.

Perhaps attributing to the cold winter wind or my natural introverted tendencies to shy away from large groups of people, I found myself receding into a mellow, simmering state of being, much more than I conducted myself on my other solo adventures.

I also lived in Brooklyn the first week, in a squat, semi-run-down building that gave me a different perspective on the trip than if I'd moved into my friend's sleek condo in Manhattan right away. The pounding of doors across the hall became the norm, and I learned to pad softly on the areas where the floorboards creaked.

I was like an ember, waiting for a spark, a catalyst, that never truly came. And that's ok. Not every adventure is going to be life-changing.

If there's anything I've learned on my treks around the world, it's to expect nothing and receive everything.

So I received.

I received the teachings of my dance teachers. I received the sights, sounds, and aromas of the city around me. I received the warmth and kindness of newfound friends. I even received the pockets of silence and moments alone in my apartment with open arms, feeling it all – the reflectiveness, the loneliness, the what-am-I-doing-here?-ness.

Christmas festivities were still in full force, and 2025 was just around the corner. There was a wintry cheer in the air, but it was the first (and only, to date) New Year's I'd spent entirely by myself.

My second night in the city, I had a blast with an Airbnb photoshoot booking around Times Square that introduced me to new friends and new sights. That was about the craziest it got for me in those two weeks.

The next day, New Year's Eve, I went to my dance classes as usual, then met with an old friend from middle school for bubble tea. Originally, a dance peer and I had planned dinner in Chinatown to celebrate. She cancelled later in the day because she was exhausted – she'd signed up for more classes than me in the intensive, she was doing the full three weeks, and she lived in Queens.

I didn't blame her at all. I know exactly how that exhaustion feels.

Still, I missed New Year's Eve at home with my mom for this.

I considered letting the adventurous side of me take over and drag myself to Times Square to witness the ball drop in action. A part of me desperately wanted to. I was in New York, for heaven's sake!

But I'd heard the horror stories, and the rational part of me – or more like, the small-bladdered part – vehemently fought against it. My peers told me people wore adult diapers just to resist having to leave their spot. (Two girls who braved it told me they didn't drink a sip of water once they entered the venue – they were there for 4+ hours).

Apparently, people also line up from the morning to get a good spot inside. It's wild. By the time I seriously considered going, it was already 6 PM, and I figured my chances were low.

At the time, I was working a job for managers back home who came from New York City, and they were all too eager to share their warnings with me.

"NO," they practically screamed at me when I asked if going to Times Square for New Year's Eve would be a good idea.

They told me every year, they high-tail it out of there as soon as they can after the workday ends. The traffic's crazy, the crowds are crazy, and the people are, you guessed it, crazy.

I'll admit I can imagine some of the unsanitary acts that go on there.

So, after a brief debate with myself, I decided maybe this year wasn't the right year for a lone, petite girl to sliver her way into a massive crowd at night.

Instead, I ordered take-out from a Chinese restaurant and holed up inside my Brooklyn apartment. Incidentally, none of my roommates were home. I was alone.

I called my mom – she drank a glass of red wine to celebrate as we counted down to the clock.

I called my boyfriend – he had finished setting off fireworks with his brother and friends a couple hours ago and was sharing a room with them at night, so he had to be quiet. We were long-distance.

I stretched myself out in the little living room and watched the livestream of Times Square. My roommate's cat, Kiwi, paced around. It was a quiet time, but it wasn't bad. I appreciated the space for peace and quiet and was sure the city would bring a new wind in the coming days.

(And what a wind that was – one night I walked out of the subway in Brooklyn into a hurricane-like wind that literally blew the tote bag off my shoulder several yards down the street. I scrambled to get it back and find all the items it had blown out.)

The next morning, it was like nothing had happened in Times Square. The stage was taken down overnight, there were no more guardrails, and everything exuded a sense of calm.

I want to be clear that despite my somewhat romantic findings, New York City is definitely not romantic at first glance. That raunchiness, that sort of guttural vulgarity – it's there. Everywhere. And you'll probably get a good laugh out of it.

Strange things happen here.

Cuteness and corny collide.

Sometimes it's just cute.

There's a sarcastic humour to things that may serve as a protective shell. You have to peel it away, look closely, to find the matter within.

Slowly, New York began to open its heart to me. I saw a side to it that wasn't so concerned with the next big thing – the "little apple" within its Big Apple counterpart. And the "little apple" was beautiful.

The most touching part of my stay was when I discovered The Strangers Project exhibition. I don't remember how I knew about it; I just went to find it one day. After a long and freezing goose chase (the Google Maps address was incorrect), I finally found it tucked in the basement level of a corporate building, inconspicuous, awaiting.

I felt something in the air as soon as I walked in. In here, there was no You and Me and Them. There was just Us. A bunch of humans navigating life together and all its indecencies and joys.

The Strangers Project is a traveling pop-up exhibition curated and created by Brandon Doman. Brandon himself was manning the information table, and he was just the loveliest person.

Visitors can stay as long as they want. I took a clipboard and wrote my own contribution to the masses, hoping that one day my words might pique someone else's interest.

The exhibition was heartbreaking. The exhibition was healing.

Being in that space, surrounded by so much love and hope and tears, was just what I needed to pick myself up for another week of solo travelling.

My second week was much busier because I moved into another childhood friend's apartment in Central Manhattan. I took advantage of it to see as many Broadway shows as I could.

But while Broadway was amazing and fun and chill, what I was most inspired by was the multitude of raw talent living in the streets of New York.

Locals will joke with a somewhat exasperated look about the subway dancers who board the train and start breaking/pole dancing, but the first time I saw it, I was blown away. Those dancers – usually Black and Hispanic men – were amazing.

And the breakdancers and parkour enthusiasts outside the New York Public Library? I can't imagine the kind of effort you'd have to go through to self-learn those tricks. Because, as they say, breakdancing started in the streets, and it was passed down communally. There's a lot to unpack here regarding race and history, which this article won't go into, but seeing those dancers was like seeing New York's heritage itself.

(Though, as I realized near the end, they were performing for tourist tips, which made the scene a bit awkward, but people got to do what they got to do.)

Plus, the calibre of humour in New York City's subway lines had be grinning like a fool. I saw everything from dancing plushies (to outrageous jazz music) to dancing skeletons (i.e. a man dancing with a skeleton in a very sensual tango). It was so creative.

This was the true heart of New York. There's so much potential here, so much lurking underneath the surface. It felt like any second, somebody or something could blow up (metaphorically) that would change the course of history forever.

Maybe this is what lured so many people I know from the dance industry here. This undefined, waiting-to-be-discovered spotlight. In fact, what I was most curious about for this trip was seeing the city that so many contacts called home. What drew them here? What is their life like? How do they survive in this metropolis with millions and millions of passing faces?

I didn't feel like I'd "become one" with the city in the way I felt when I was in London. I didn't want to fight the fight here. But I understood it – the grit, the desire, the ravenousness.

Between calm attractions like the Bryant Park Winter Village and admiring the glass-reflected skylines of Manhattan, I managed to carve my own heaven, just a bit, in this never-ending story.

By the end of those two weeks, I had found a certain peace with New York. I jay-walked like a pro with the locals around me. My friend even had to stop me in my tracks as I started to cross without eyeing the car driving straight toward me. Maybe I'd inherited a bit of that grunge after all.

It took me 26 life years to make this trip (no, those family trips when I was a baby and therefore don't remember anything don't count). I'm surprised myself that it took me this long, but the people I met were the right people, and the things I saw were the right things.

New York City is not what I'd call mine, but it certainly left a lasting impression. So, my fellow travellers, hold tight to that feeling because the City of Dreams holds nothing impossible.

The lights,

The sounds,

The action...

Welcome to New York, it's been waitin' for you