The Pyle Inside

On a humid August morning

Just 30 minutes to noon

I was born at NYU hospital

Taken home in a swaddle

 

In those early years

Our nanny took us in our twin stroller around Gramercy Park

But mostly,

We played in our little apartment

With matchbox cars

And cloth dolls

I remember

Afternoons spent at the Union Square playground with my nursery friends

While our parents picnicked and chatted

My old doorman who gave me the warmest bear hugs

The National Arts Club and the annual holiday parties

And I suppose my memories are also stories

From my brother and my mom and my dad

The memories are

Woven pieces that come from summer days in the park

Autumn evenings dining at the trattoria on our block

And it all sort of comes together

 

There’s this picture on my desk of me as a baby

My dad props me up with one hand

And takes the photo with a polaroid in the other

I’m sitting on the windowsill of our favorite cafe

And in that picture,

You can kind of see everything

The people rushing off to work in the background

The people sipping coffee on brownstone stoops

It’s a picture that sort of speaks for itself

 

When I go back to the Big Apple

I’m stepping back into time

We say hi to my old hairdresser

And the friendly doorman

New York may be big

It’s a city of over 8 million after all

And all those people

Are just like me

They come from everywhere

And their culture travels with them

But today, they are New Yorkers

 

I could never forget this place

And it won’t forget me

Because when I return,

My own little world will still be there

My apartment with the creaky hardwood floors

The laundromat

The deli

The grocery store

The corner pharmacy

The toy store

The park

All within a couple of blocks

 

The Empire City never fails to amaze me

Because people always

Come together

Come closer

Rely on thy neighbor

In times of need

“For on that clear September morning of 2001

Yes, there was tragedy

But in the aftermath, the world saw hope in the solidarity

And the strength of New Yorkers,”

My parents tell me

In mid March 2020

And during the many months that followed

The world saw New York shut down

The city that never sleeps

Took a little nap

But then awoke

Fresher than ever

 

New York is culture

It’s cuisine

And little ethnic enclaves

Where you can find your people

Everyone here comes from different walks of life

The streets sing a song of a thousand languages

And the delis and little corner cafes smell like heaven

With every step

Chinatown is full of trinket stores and poultry markets

Further north, the confectionary shops in Little Italy sell perfectly packaged panettone

That my mom and I adore browsing

during the holidays

And for a late brunch, Balthazar is just around the corner in Soho

And though the wait is a few hours long

It is always worth it

To take me back to a beloved brasserie in Paris near my mom’s childhood flat

And when I walk by Hanoi House in the East Village

I catch a waft of the simmering pho broth

And it brings me back to my Ba’s kitchen

In Little India, I can smell the sizzling naan

That sputters in underground kitchens

Then, there’s my favorite kawaii minimarts in Koreatown

That I go to while my brother grabs boba with my dad

After a quick ride on the NR train, my nanny Lolita will greet us

With a casserole of her famous Filipino chicken adobo

At her home in Queens

In New York, you always find snippets of where you’re from

Wherever you go

 

New York isn’t something I could just tell someone about

It’s a feeling

Like Billie Joel says in that song

It’s a New York state of mind