Selina Xu

It seems like just months ago that I wrote Fifty Days in New York. But, blink, breathe, eyes lock, pages flip in a blur, days inching forward with barely much variety, a steady staccato, followed by weeks when everything seems to be in upheaval, and I’m gazing out of the window on the Metro North train, realizing as my eyes drink in the red and yellow hues on the banks of the Hudson that it’s fall again. Glorious autumn, returning like a reincarnation. The seasons reminding me of the inevitable forward propulsion of time. I feel time passing discretely, viscerally. And I’ve been in this city for 402 days.

This time last year I was still mooning over a boy, I tell him on the train. But look at us now.

I know, he says, smiling. I know.

A year in, I still love the magic of the city. The incredible power of Broadway to make me cry. Sobbing at the outro of Sunset Boulevard, bowled over by the sheer feral ferocity of Norma Desmond’s voice—ringing, poignant, piercing through the darkness, and pinning me in my spot. When the spotlight hit her bloodied face, her eyes locking into ours, we leaned forward against the mezzanine balustrade, breathless and mesmerized.

Standing in the crowded Lillian Vernon house, listening to one of my favorite authors Elif Batuman read from her possible next manuscript. Remembering when I first came across The Idiot the year before college—a girl called Selin who goes to Harvard and wonders if she can become a writer—and feeling so much resonance. And reading Either/Or and yearning too for “the aesthetic life.”

Fall is Halloween. Sitting on the subway sandwiched between the Joker and a worm, facing Patrick the Starfish. Giggly, delighted, pretending to be terrified. Is there any other city where people put in so much effort into dressing up for Halloween? Is there any other place like West Village between 14th St and Canal St that can come as close to a Halloween Mecca, a carnivalesque celebration?

Fall is hiking.

Fall is also the election. On Nov 5, curled up on the couch, rocked by bouts of pain and nausea, brought on by uncannily timed food poisoning (Laut, why do this to me), refreshing the electorate map on my phone, groggy-eyed. The morning after, at the doctor’s, the world went on turning as usual. In the waiting room, an old lady navigated with difficulty on a wheeled walker. I heard the clickety-clack of the receptionist typing on her keyboard. The smell of antiseptic and lemony air freshener. I took a candy and sucked on it. My stomach unclenched. And all was alright.