New York City Please Go Easy On Me (This Time)

After 5 Failed Trips to NYC, I've Learned: Homes are Helpful.

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. Actually it was just New York. I was single, broke and 26, with $400 in the bank but enough Southwest points from stacking up debt to fly across the country, in hopes of replicating an experience I saw on HBO’s Girls.

Except I wasn’t Lena Dunham. My parents didn’t own a Tribeca loft. I had no idea how to navigate the L train. And I felt wildly uncomfortable naked.

My 20s were filled with failed trips to NYC, ones I still glamorize as the best days of my life. My parents called them “disasters.” I called them “core memories that shaped me.” I’d land hoping to fall in love with either a self-proclaimed Greenpoint vampire who thought I was too basic, or a finance bro who thought I was too feral. Neither romance happened. All that ever happened was that the person that told me I could stay with them suddenly bailed at the last minute and I’d have to fight to find a couch to stay on.

No Diddy or Yes Diddy? That Is the Question

Naturally, when it was announced that the Diddy trial would be happening in New York City, I didn’t jump at the opportunity. Sure, it sounded like a great idea, but my mind has been plagued with awful, chaotic experiences that always ended badly.

I’ve never had luck traveling to New York without a stable place to stay.

Failed Trip #1

One year, I went to New York and was planning to stay with my friend Carly. When I arrived, she casually informed me she was living under her desk. She was embodying George Costanza in real time. She didn’t want to pay for an apartment, so she was sleeping under her desk at work and showering at a nearby gym. As you can imagine, there wasn’t room for two under there (trust me, I asked).

A Turkish friend from college who lived in Queens ended up letting me stay with him, but apparently he had a crush on me and got mad when I chose the couch over his bed. Kicked to the curb I went.

I became stoop kid from Hey Arnold, but without a stoop to call my own.

One night, I ended up at a backyard BBQ in Brooklyn, drinking my problems away, and met a Ukrainian girl named Sasha who wrote dick poems. She was crying about a guy who wasn’t texting her back. I was crying that I didn’t have any friends with a futon. She told me I could stay with her and her roommates in Bed-Stuy, and I said why not. Poets are trustworthy. Plus, she had a September birthday. I slept like a baby in her house and went home. Thank you, Sasha.

Failed Trip #2

Another time, I flew to New York to visit a finance guy I was seeing. We had a sober date at a bar walking distance from the flat his parents paid for. The date was so boring I asked if he wanted to have a spelling bee. He didn’t know how to spell. Then he made me go dutch on a cheese quesadilla. In hindsight, I don’t blame him. Maybe it was the spelling bee, or maybe I didn’t look as good as my photos. Whatever it was, I wasn’t worth $6 to him. This was pre-FaceTune and pre-FaceApp, so I’m genuinely not sure how I struck out. To this day, he’s still leaving heart eye emojis on my photos, and I’m still watching him misspell simpy comments on sorority girls’ posts.

Failed Trip #3

I flew to New York to meet up with two friends I’ve known for over a decade. When I got there, we drove to New Jersey to share a sticky studio apartment in the middle of July. But I didn’t care. It’s never about the environment, it’s about the company! Or so I thought, until the room started moving right as I was falling asleep. I looked up, and my two friends were having sex on the bed next to me. My guy friend put on ocean music noises from his Android phone, hoping that would drown it out. I pretended to look the other way and then finally said “can you guys get a room?” But that wasn’t really my place to say because technically it was HIS room. I tried to make them stop with humor: “you can put on ocean music but it still won’t drown out the sounds of the motion of the ocean.” They just laughed and continued having terrible slow-motion sex. SNEAKY SLOW MOTION THRUSTS COVERED IN A STAINED BED SHEET. The next morning, I booked a hotel for the rest of the week and threw it on my Discover card— which, to this day, feels like one of the most responsible decisions I’ve ever made. #grownup

Failed Trip #4

My best friend, living in a four-bedroom spot in Bushwick, told me I could come stay with her for a week. But when I arrived, she broke the news: her roommates had just decided to implement a “no visitors” rule. Feeling guilty, she booked me an Airbnb down the street—the kind where the bathroom is shared with strangers in the hallway. There were heroin needles in the trash can. The airbnb had a loudly bubbling fish tank that was cloudy and loud. The door to my bedroom didn’t lock. I had no idea who the other guests were in the space. When my friend walked me back and saw the place in person, she panicked, said “screw the roommate rule,” and snuck me into her bed that night.

Failed Trip #5

I brought back no memories, no man, no meaning — just bedbugs. My Dad had to fly across the country to help me exterminate. I still owe him one.

It’s Me, I, I’m the Problem It’s Me

As you’re reading through these stories, I know what you’re thinking: “EMILIE YOU!!! YOU ARE THE PROBLEM!!!!!!!

You’re probably right. I went to the city every time without a plan. I thought things would work out for me the way they do in movies. Back then, I believed money came if you bought the right manifestation trinkets in Chinatown. I didn’t understand that money came from… working.

I’ve grown up a lot since those chaotic days. I used to live for stories like that, but in the past couple years, my life has gotten boring by design. Most of my nights are now spent at the computer, deep-diving into cases like Diddy. My stimulation doesn’t come from analyzing why a Brooklyn vampire ghosted me — it comes from staying up late, researching, and trying to untangle the mysteries shaping our culture. Trying to save the world, one rabbit hole at a time.

I believe this trip will be different. I don’t drink like I used to. I’m in a stable relationship. I’ve spent the last few years getting my ducks in a row. Yesterday, my mom complimented me for not interrupting someone on the phone. She called it maturity. I’m not going to chase delusional dreams packaged to me by HBO anymore. I’ve outgrown my hipster phase. I’m going to New York to work. This time, I’m not looking for love or chaos. I’m looking for justice, and a functioning shower.

But the real reason I’m hopeful?

Two gigs I had lined up for May both unexpectedly got canceled, clearing my entire schedule. And more importantly, a friend offered me a place to stay for the first two weeks of the trial. It felt serendipitous. I won’t be hopping from stoop to stoop, crashing in bachelor pads or strangers’ houses with dick poems pinned to the wall, and living off the dopamine hit of a stranger named Skittles complimenting my energy.

I’ll be able to shower. Brush my teeth. Report my findings like a functioning member of society, offering knowledge instead of spiraling.

Sure, I’ll find a little madness. I’m not trying to be a total dud. But if I learned anything in 2016, 2017, and 2019, it’s this: homes are helpful.

As Alicia Keys sang on the chorus of Ye’s latest release of Donda 2’s “City of Gods:”

“New York City, please go easy on me tonight.”

New York City, please go easy on me this month.

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