With many great and passionate loves comes torture and despair, and my love for summertime in New York is no exception. We all know magic lies in every nook, cranny and borough of New York, and the magic seems to be tangible in the summertime, when the heat ripples off the sidewalks creating mirages and the day bleeds into the night in a hot and sweaty timeless void. While we New Yorkers dread the heat waves and our inevitable broken air conditioners, we’d rather suffer June, July, and August in closet sized fifth floor walk-ups we pay thousands for than anywhere else. This is my ode to summer, my ode to a passionate and destructive relationship with New York.
June is the overly sugary jelly bottom of the yellow cups of Italian ice, following the chaos of May when school winds down and finals drag on to the end of the month. June is sticky sweet, laying in bed with the windows open, at some indiscernible hour of the night. It is 90 degrees outside and the apartment is approximately 50 degrees hotter, the heat unwavering since about noon. The air conditioner is broken again, so an electric fan does its best to save me from heat stroke. Besides the heavy heat, my room is full of the sounds of sirens and horns and dog barks and laughs and shouting from the street, people are out and about well into the night because this is New York, the only time we sleep is until at least 11 a.m. the next day.
I love taking walks to the park at night, it’s by the pier and it’s the new trendy hangout spot on this side of Brooklyn. Lovers lounge in the grass, under the sunset or the stars. Groups of teenagers chill by the rocks, making questionable choices and loud noises. People ride bikes, skateboards, and the occasional unicycle. The East River sparkles gold and across the way the city stands still, a glimmering promise. Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts, until the wind picks up off the water and blows remnants of garbage into your mouth and eyes. Hey, a small price to pay for a few moments of serenity in New York. I live for the trips to Coney Island just to eat Nathan’s and sit in the sand, trying to avoid the wild and scary sea gulls who plan attacks on unsuspecting people with food.
This is the norm, absolutely ecstasy intertwined with suffering, characterizing the long summers in this city.
July approaches fast, just as hot and sweaty as June but it smells more like burgers. Bodegas on every street corner barbecue in their backyards and set up hot dog stands out front. I consume my weight in fresh fruit and guava juice, laying in the grass that my sweat is surely watering. Laying in the grass is fun and all, but you can’t really do it for more than five minutes without being eaten alive by bugs or being burnt to a crisp in the sun. It’s best to go out at night, when the heat remains without the sun. I hear the tune of the ice cream truck and lets be real, no matter where you are or how old you are, you feel the excitement rise as the jingle crescendos and you might even scream “ICE CREAM” for old time’s sake. But none of the new hipster trucks who sell froyo and dairy free ice cream or Kool Man, Mister Softee is the OG and all the others should take a seat. If you’re a local you definitely know the difference between the ice cream truck tunes and can hear it from 20 blocks away.
The Fourth of July is best spent on rooftops or fire escapes, watching the fireworks and eating cheetos or assorted BBQ. July is the month of block parties, which is also a time of disappointment that you’re too old for the bounce houses and maybe too young to drink (beware, your mom or grandma are always watching!) The nostalgia hangs as heavy as the heat when a local dad opens the fire hydrant for all the kids to play in, hopefully he holds the stream so you don’t get blown away by the water. Summer classes end in mid July but it’s not even like you were in school anyway, the professors are so chill and make everything super easy because they would rather be laid up at home watching Netflix just like you.
August is just plain hot. Sleep is forever restless and you wake up soaked in pools of sweat. There is no strong desire to even get out of bed, so day after day passes of sitting in bed in your underwear streaming TV shows. I don’t know about you, but my happiness has a positive correlation with the amount of clothes I’m wearing. The less I’m wearing, the happier I am. I’ll take the heat any day if it means I can traipse around naked. Nights are spent bar hopping or walking around exploring and people watching, the smell of flowers perfumes the air and it is honestly one of my favorite summer experiences. Unfortunately exploration during the day involves riding the subway during peak hours, which in the summer is even more excruciating than any other time you might have to take it. Bodies are packed in tightly, skin on skin, sweat on sweat, and the experience cannot be described as anything other than gross. You stick to other people and if you’re lucky enough, the seat. Sure, it’s cool inside the train, but the stations suck the life from you. Underground it is difficult to breathe, it is so hot that as soon as you descend, sweat trickles down your forehead into your eyes. Don’t bother doing your hair because I guarantee it will be time wasted. As soon as you exit the subway, you run to whatever art museum or gallery or concert you’re going to because they have air conditioning and it saves your life. August is the last hurrah before school begins again and responsibility rears its ugly head, so there is a rush to get in all of your last guilty ice cream cones, fish tacos at midnight, drunken nights, bad decisions, lazy days, and open windows at night.
Summers in New York hurt so good and I wouldn’t trade them for anything, we long for the insatiable suffering because we live in the best city in the world. Also, anything is better than the gray, slushy, wet and cold winters right around the corner…
