Impact
The City that Never Sleeps, Living in New York During the Pandemic
When I was nine years old I visited New York City for the first time. Driving over the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan I saw skyscrapers, American flags and hundreds of yellow cabs. I ate pretzels from street vendors and I spent hours in Central Park. It was Christmas time, I watched in awe as the Rockefeller tree was erected. The city was immersed in festivities. I went to Times Square, surrounded by masses of tourists staring at the flashing billboards. And of course, I explored the Disney Store. It was a city of spectacle. I knew it was where I would end up.
Nineteen years later, I packed up my life and moved from Sydney to New York City.
I had secured a steal of an apartment by New York City standards, a spacious yet affordable, one bed, one bath in the heart of the trendy East Village. Usually priced around $3,500 plus per month, I got it for $3,000. The floor was slightly uneven and the apartment was below ground, after all it was New York City and a faultless rental is hard to come by. I landed a job. I signed up for a site to find last-minute Broadway theatre tickets. I got my NYC ID so I could pay the discounted admission fee to The Metropolitan Museum of Art. My plan was to visit one of their 17 curatorial departments each weekend, starting with Egyptian Art. I had my New York Knicks basketball cap ready to don for games at Madison Square Garden, my Resy notifications were set to score a table at Carbon. Everything was coming together. Then, just as I’d learnt how to navigate the subway system, the global pandemic hit. All of New York City’s sparkles vanished.
An eerily quiet New York City hadn’t been part of my plan but it had become a reality and I was going to have to deal with it.
Those first few weeks, sirens kept me awake at night, ambulances taking dying victims to the hospital around the corner. My normally bustling street was deserted, no pedestrians, no cars. Supermarket lines were hours long, rationing toilet paper was no longer something I laughed about, physical social interactions were completely eliminated. It was not New York City as I knew it. Yet, I never even consider going back to Sydney.
Words: Alice I’Anson 2021
Cover Image: Alice I’Anson 2021
My friends and I had virtual happy hours on Friday nights, I started learning French online and at seven o’clock every evening the entire city broke out in applause for the frontline workers as they changed shifts, a glimmer of hope. I joined the clapping from my window. I’d become a New Yorker.
In May, two months into the lockdown, George Floyd, an African-American man, was killed by a police officer in Minneapolis. Social unrest erupted across the country and initially, peaceful protests flowed throughout New York City. People had to decide what was more important to them at that moment, the risk of contracting Covid-19 or the need to stand up against a history of racism in America.
Then it turned violent.
One Sunday, I went to Union Square, a 15-minute walk from my apartment. I had never seen anything like what I saw that morning. The windows of banks, restaurants and bodegas were shattered, bins were overturned, graffiti was scrawled everywhere. Most shocking were the police vehicles vandalized and burned. It felt like a war zone.
That was in the summer.
Nine months later, the city had become reenergized. Winter transitioned into Spring. The parks were filled with cherry blossoms, people and dogs, live music was back. Restaurants reopened, curfews were lifted. My street was lively again. I was still learning French online. I’d been to Carbon and had spent time at four of the 17 permanent Met collections.
I had been vaccinated.
Nine-year-old me saw New York City as the center of the world, nineteen years later and there’s no place I’d rather call home.