Oh, my lovely West Village, I bid you adieu

I am moving in a month. One month. And I can count on being a frazzled mess for the foreseeable future. Not just because my home is going to feel like an upside-down mess, but also because I’m about to move to a whole new neighborhood where I have to recreate a new familiar. Gone are the days of tapping my foot to the jaunty tunes practically flying from the Piano Man in Washington Square Park while I work on my needlepoint for hours. Gone are the days of strategically moving from bench to bench in the Jefferson Market Library Garden, trying to grab the seat with the best shade. Gone are the days of walking Beezus by Mr. Laughter on Hudson and Morton, drawing inspiration from the cat’s totally Zen approach to everything and everyone.

My first encounters with this neighborhood of mine are not memorable; mainly because I was still fresh in Manhattan, and the chaotic flow of this city was terrifying, making every moment feel almost like a rushed blur. There are very small bits of scenes that I try to hang on to, like the time I sat on the bench with my friend in Father Demo Square while he ate chocolate ice cream from Grom. Everything about that moment felt so foreign to me then. Or when I stood absolutely still for a good hour in front of Christopher Street Station, trying to figure out the madness of that intersection, convinced I was forever lost.

But something changed when Asher and I moved into our first apartment—this tiny little thing on Christopher Street where natural light refused to seep in. This change certainly didn’t happen overnight, but gradually over a couple years, until it became very clear that I was in too deep. The chaotic nature of this neighborhood, of this city, transformed into the kind of energy that electrifies me every time I step outside my building. The bustle of Father Demo Square no longer feels foreign, and became a frequent meeting spot for many friends. And though that forever-puzzling Christopher Street intersection still baffles me, even after living here for six years, I’m now an expert at making a wrong turn appear intentional.

My every day revolves around the spirit of this neighborhood. Every morning, I wake up to the sunlight and the leaves on the trees outside, serenading with each other to create such lively shadows. The chirps of the birds join in to make it feel almost musical, and I have the pleasure of watching the whole performance from my bed. My dog and I walk the same streets, letting our minds wander and imagine as our eyes linger over the aged brownstones and cracked sidewalks. I have my spots I frequent almost daily—where I go to get the warm baguette for lunch, the tree with the best shade to lean against for picnics, my favorite Chinese spot, my other favorite Chinese spot that’s way more affordable, the list goes on. And even though it is strictly prohibited for New Yorkers to learn their neighbors’ names, I have my people here, my tribe. I greet the same neighbors almost every day, say hi to the same neighborhood dogs, visit the same store cats. I know the things that matter to the people around me, and I know how they care—often checking in on each other through small gestures that feel like just enough.

So many beautiful and wonderful things happened during my time here—the time Asher and I ventured out in the middle of a blizzard and found refuge in this new-to-us bar where he became so obvious and clear to me, the day our baby cat came into our lives, glorious afternoons soaking in the sun on the rooftop, countless outings with friends filled with laughter, and ending dinners with a short walk home while he holds my hand.

But the most wonderful thing about this neighborhood is the feeling of home—pride in belonging here because I worked so damn hard to carve out this place for myself. Of feeling like, yes, I’m enough simply because I’m here, I’m me. I never realized how much I craved that feeling, and how every other place I’ve lived before feels like a place I needed to live through to get here, to this exact spot at this exact time.

West Village, I’m just not done with you. I don’t know if I’m ever going to be done with you. If I could live here forever—and whatever is longer than forever—I would. It’s been six magical years, and my heart still swells up with joy every time I walk outside. I’m still captivated by the beauty of the streets, the faces, the scenes I see every single day. I still feel like there’s still so much more to uncover about you, and six years is just not enough. But it’s time for me to move on. And even though I will learn to love my new neighborhood, create new spots for myself, meet new people, etc., I also know there will always be a piece of me aching to be back here with you. To come home again.