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Personal Essay: Moving To New York City

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Last winter, I moved to New York in search of a little lightness. I Marie Kondo’d my belongings and bought a one-way ticket to New York, finding myself fortunate enough to call a beautiful building (ironically, called Brooklyn Air) home. New to the city and armoured with an unhealthy dose of extrovertness, I took it upon myself to cultivate a loosely-designed supper club, where the sharing of homemade dishes was a central theme. Every dinner would be an eclectic and exciting assortment of appetite-quenchers from vegan raw cheesecake to gluten-free pizza. We (my roommate and I) started out big and never stopped, extending invites to everyone from our best friends to people passing through town. Each time, welcoming a new friendship into the fold with every fork bite.

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Homesick? In need of comfort food? Ted-Talk friendly conversation? Head to Brooklyn Air. There was something for everyone and whether or not the sunset decided to make a time-appropriate appearance, it didn’t matter. All of us, an ever-rotating guest list of friends, colleagues and strangers felt the unanimous feeling of being young, light and ambitious in the city. Our rooftop dinner parties were not Food Network approved, but they would certainly have garnered the ‘like’ of an Eater staff writer or two.

Months later, clutching a pair of newly-cut keys to a more down to earth spot in Manhattan, I can safely say that while my first floor apartment is as adorable as a pre-war walk-up can be, no amount of air-con can replicate the feeling that living 32 floors high did. Dinner parties are still a thing, but the guests, more familiar, and the numbers much smaller. Perhaps, as with most who call this city “home”, it was bound to happen. But for me, those rooftop dinner parties connected the old and the new me. It was the city extending an olive branch and me welcoming it with both
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