A tale of two cities

And neither one is “mine”

I’m pressed against the doors of the 6 Train, rumbling past 33 Street and trying not to breathe. The subway isn’t crowded—it’s 11 am on a Sunday during winter break, and the car is close to empty—it’s just that a man has decided to stand uncomfortably close to me, his back inches from my face. It’s as if he somehow sensed that there was an obstacle between him and the door, preventing him from standing flat against it, yet failed to recognize that this obstacle was, in fact, another human being. My eyes flit around. Do I tap his shoulder? Do I clear my throat and ask him to move? Does he really not see me? 

As I shift uncomfortably and try to make up my mind, the passenger next to me saves me the trouble. “Hey man, take a step forward for her,” he says. The man in front of me, turning and finally acknowledging my presence, mumbles a hasty “sorry” and moves to an empty seat. A breath of relief escapes my lungs and I quietly thank the man next to me, though I feel vaguely confused and disappointed with myself. Why couldn’t I have done that for myself? It was a minor inconvenience with an easy fix; why didn’t I ask him to move? 

As I exit the train at 28 Street, I feel displaced; hollow; vacant. It’s not that my experience on the subway was abnormal—in New York, you get used to being overlooked and smushed. It was my response to the situation that unsettled me, my feeling unjustified in taking up space in a city that used to be “mine.” My old self would’ve said something, uttered a clear “excuse me” and secured for myself enough space to breathe, yet this new me felt like an imposter, a fake New Yorker who didn’t deserve to be riding the subway in the first place.  

What do you do when you’ve lost your sense of “groundedness”, your rooted place in the world? I no longer feel like a New Yorker, yet after three months in Toronto, I don’t feel like a Torontonian, either. Am I destined to be a drifter, floating from place to place without ever touching down?  

As I wander the city, I become more aware of just how much I’ve forgotten. The winding routes that used to be patterned in my veins feel foreign and unfamiliar: I walk east when I’m certain that I’m heading west, stopping in my tracks when I hit 3 Avenue instead of Park. When I pull a Metrocard from my wallet and swipe at the 42 Street station, the screen flashes “INSUFFICIENT FARE”, a hollowing reminder of my own insufficiency in a city that hadn’t waited for me while I was gone.  

Yet some things remain constant, comforts which haven’t changed for as long as I can remember. The ceiling of Grand Central sparkles as it always did, its constellations captivating tourists who stare upwards, their gazes transfixed as I dart between them impatiently. My aunt greets me by the clock that’s been our meeting place since I was eight years old, and she shares stories of my childhood as we sit in a small Greek coffee shop. As I trundle back to the suburbs on the train that evening, the stations pass by in the same order they always have, from Grand Central to Harlem 125 to Yankee E 153… 

Maybe I don’t have to settle in a single home. There are pieces of myself that will always be tied to New York, but there are also new seeds that I’ve sown in Toronto, seeds which will take root and deepen their connection to the earth as time goes on. I can be moved without being shaken, finding the comfort and familiarity that I attribute to New York in new places, and within myself. I am learning to adapt in the face of uncertainty and respond to unfamiliar situations; I am becoming a fuller person than I’ve ever been before, growing to embrace new places and faces.  

Change isn’t a loss; when I leave New York for Toronto, I’m not giving up one home and replacing it with another. Transitions provide opportunities for transformation, evolution, and expansion. Maybe I’m not a New Yorker or a Torontonian—maybe I am both and more. I’m a blend of all the places and sights I’ve known and loved, a kaleidoscope of experiences that grows more complex as my life unfolds.  

It’s a long and confusing process to find your “place in the world,” and I often place emphasis on the where rather than the who, the what, and the why. I wonder: Where will I work? Where will I go to graduate school? Where will I choose to call home? Where will I end up in life? I’m beginning to think that home isn’t a physical place at all: rather, it’s a collection of feelings, memories, and people. I’ve tied my sense of home to New York not because it’s where I’m destined to live—it may or may not be—but because of the childhood memories it contains, the friends and family it holds, and the strong, deep roots of my family tree that have grown in New York soil. The more time I spend in Toronto—making new friends, settling into new spaces, and forming new roles and routines for myself—the more it’s beginning to feel like home.