There are certain moments of surrealism that come with living in New York.

They arrive randomly and suddenly.

You find yourself effortlessly giving directions to tourists, hearing this amalgamation of metropolitan jargon spilling out of your mouth, and it just hits you. There was a point, or rather a small infinity of points, between then and now, where you ceased being one of them. There was a point where the letters of the trains held as much meaning to you as a bowl of alphabet soup. A, C, F, M, J. 1, 2, 4, 6. It did not much matter. They were symbols for things you held no need for yet. You were untethered, wandering, dreaming. You were, more than anything, wondering where the hell you were.

And then, randomly, you are the one being asked for directions, barely flinching as you give them out mindlessly. A moment later, two girls walk by and you overhear one tell the other that she just loves how people dress here. You think, me too! And then, interjecting, a small current of pride runs through your veins as you remember that you are people now.

ARE YOU FROM SAN DIEGO?

I was nineteen the first time I visited New York City alone and it was a very big deal.

I was working downtown at a restaurant and everyone there was very excited to hear about it. I came back and reported my undying love for the East Coast, speaking in the same tone as those girls. You should see the way they dress there! And they read! People read there! Oh and the architecture! The history! The chaos of getting anywhere!

My San Diegan coworkers loved their cutoff shorts and orange candy sunsets and predictable weather. They liked lazy days spent surfing, hanging out at açai shacks by the shore. Almond lattes with wildflower honey drizzled on top. Avocado toast. Salty hair and swimsuits under their clothes. So why I was practically floating as I explained the abundance of street art and cool coats and subway rats to them was beyond sense. It was a mythical world to me. It could not have been more foreign, yet it was the one I felt instantly at home within.

Are you from San Diego?

The checker at the department store sees my phone number on my account and recognizes the area code. It’s three years later and I am running errands in SoHo. It’s three years later and San Diego has since become the foreign, far away place where I am from. The one that people ask about, are always so intrigued about. I look at him and it is one of those moments. Those I live in New York moments. Yes, I tell him. I grew up there.

You spend twenty-one years in a place, meeting people from all over and telling them that you are from here. Born and raised. And then, one random day in November, you are now the person from someplace far away.

I step outside and look up. I hear cars honking and a faint serenade of Christmas music.

Everyone around me is snapping photos, gathering in one of the biggest tourist hubs of Manhattan and I am running errands. Errands.

I am buying a hosting gift for my boyfriend’s family for Thanksgiving next week and it hits me how tethered I suddenly am to the one place I wanted nothing more than to be attached to. I used to wander around on those solo trips I took out here and feel an intense longing to belong. To really belong. To have my own apartment to go back to at night and people to see and places to be. I was completely untethered and aimless on those trips and in a way, I loved that then.

But I am attached, sewn right into the seams of the place now and I love it so much more.

I used to dream of East Coast Thanksgivings back in California, where we often lounged poolside while the Turkey roasted. I loathed those palm tress and how they never gave the slightest indication of the season. To spend it in Connecticut this year, with cherry red and banana yellow leaves underfoot, is just another strange moment of surrealism.

One of so many.

Here are a few more.

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