We told ourselves we'd be in New York a year or two.
Today, it's been three.
Paul has said that he expected this to happen. I didn't expect it, but I had hoped. I'm certainly not ready to commit a lifetime to New York (see last week's posts about Ohio), but I did want to actually live in New York and not be just another tourist-as-resident.
That first week we moved here in 2007 was obviously very busy, but a few things stand out in my mind. Lying awake at night, wondering if I would ever be able to sleep through the horribly loud traffic. Having an oven that didn't work and a refrigerator that hummed incessantly (the former was fixed and the latter replaced within a few weeks). Wondering if we made a huge mistake.
But my best memory of that first week was on our first Sunday here. Paul had to return to work the next day after having the week off, and even though I didn't yet have a job, it still felt like the end of my vacation, too.
The week had been gray and rainy, but that Sunday was sunny and just cool enough for a light jacket. The perfect fall day. We took the train to Central Park and wandered. The park was crowded enough that it probably would annoy me now, but I liked it then. It didn't matter. I was living in New York.
I still get that feeling sometimes. Not every day, not even every week. But every few months I'll see or do something that makes me so happy to live here. When that goes away, I'll know it's time for me to leave.