Welcome to the sour, nearly tangible sensation that greets you as you pass by a line of trash bags on the very edge of any random street. Enjoy a trip to the farmers market at Union Square and a sip of apple cider that makes you shiver under the summer sun. Whiffs of sunscreen that linger here and there. Ferry rides that do not replicate the experience of traversing on a yacht. Green trees — every once in a while. Pavement that always seems to have a weird puddle of water. Sift through secondhand clothing under the Brooklyn Bridge. Feel the constant spray of droplets from the Washington Square Park fountain, as vanilla ice cream drips onto your fingertips.
Welcome home.
Welcome to the rows of towels spread across patches of grass, where readers yearn to witness a bird flutter from a palm tree branch and peck at specks of sand. A place where you’ll have to move down the subway stairs in what feels like an awkward blend of running and hopping. Where the subway door might close on your backpack, but don’t fear just “stand clear of the closing door, please.” Those performers that sing not words, but sounds centered in one voice that fill the whole station. Indescribable smells that seem intentional. Going uptown instead of downtown. That one person that thinks the entrance is a stoplight — even some behavior is certainly not apposite for the subway station, you notice. The extraordinary pain that comes from what others perceive as ordinary rat sightings. Sewage that looks like life. Welcome home.
“Welcome home,” they tell you as you step foot into the strange and unfamiliar place that you will live in for your first year. Welcome to the silence that nearly makes a noise just moments before you meet your randomly assigned roommates for the first time. The overweight baggage that will have the five shirts and three pants that you will wear for the entire year. Meal swipes and XL twin-sized beds. The way you rub pieces of your eraser between your fingers during class. Saying that you were just going to say what the person before you said after a professor notices your waving hand, an overused maneuver to show engagement. Looking at a clock you had looked at five minutes before. The murmurs that begin the second it is time to go. Standing in line outside of the Iris & B. Gerald Cantor Film Center, head glued to phone to avoid eye contact with passerby. A Campus Safety officer reprimanding someone at a dining hall for not displaying their student ID.
Welcome home.
Welcome to the crowds that form a refuge for you to disappear in, sometimes without anyone noticing that you even have. Telling yourself that however long the sun disappears, it must shine again. Watch skateboarders at Washington Square Park glide over the spot where you once enjoyed ice cream. Welcome to learning how to find the perfect balance of clothing to wear, where you are not too cold when walking to class but not too hot once you are in class. Then those characters donned in attire reminiscent of Santa while you walk to an 8 a.m. lecture, making you quite forlorn. Completing none of the items on your winter bucket list. The sticky feeling around your mouth after eating a candy cane a professor must have given you. “I can’t feel my fingers.” The Union Square winter market. Counting the number of times you have fallen while ice skating in Central Park. A trip to Danbo for a bowl of ramen. Adding three sweaters to your rotation of clothing.
Welcome home.
Welcome to a dewy breeze that feels too humid. The rain that arrives every Saturday. Then umbrellas that don’t really offer protection so long as wind is present. Dresses singing as they submerge in a pool of sunlight — yes, the sun does shine again. A stranger in a swarm of students, flipping through pages of a textbook at the courtyard of the law school. Watching skyscrapers shrouded in mist. Those nights out where you lose everything — yourself and your phone. “Prince Street Pizza sounds good right now.” 259,200 seconds until it is over. Three months until you are back. Packing unworn clothes into boxes, destined to stay untouched for the next year. That familiar feeling of studying for an exam yet feeling utterly unprepared. Indulging in a marvelous fried Oreo from Ray’s to celebrate the end.
“Welcome home,” your family tells you as you step back into the place that you are not sure whether to call home anymore. Resting your head a few seconds longer on a shoulder as you accept an embrace. A smell you never stopped dreaming of. Welcome home.
Contact Adrianna Nehme at [email protected].
