It’s finally happening. I’m packing up my things, saying goodbye to my aunt, and to Colombia—for now, and moving to The United States.
The time has come.
I’m going to find The Ivory, and I’m going to kill him.
The entire duration of the flight, I’m lost in my thoughts. Well, I’m notlost; I know where I am in them. It’s just hard to wrap my head around the reality of it. All the training in the world can’ttrulyprepare you for something like this.
And yes, I may have spent my entire childhood sucking up knowledge like a sponge and enduring my personal form of bootcamp, but those things only take you so far.
This is my first time leaving South America. My first time on a commercial flight. Definitely my first time going to North America.
It’s nerve-racking. Just because I’m smart, and adaptable, and patient, doesn’t mean I’m not also insecure and anxious as hell.
I could meditate through it back home, when it was just an idea. This is anaction.
One that has me so jittery, I think I’m severely disturbing the guy in the seat next to me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to him when my knee won’t stop bouncing. “I’m just sorta nervous.”
He doesn’t look like he cares, but he still asks, “Your first time visiting New York?”
I nod. His accent tells me he’s likely from there. As does the way he’s grinning to himself; a smug, knowing little smirk that I can read like one of the four books I packed.
The city is going to chew you up and spit you out.
Honestly, the city can do whatever it wants with me. But not before I make good on that promise I made myself when I was just a boy.
“What part are you from?” I ask him.
“Queens,” he answers, not offended in the slightest by my assumption.
No, I suppose a New Yorker wouldn’t be.
“Cool. What part? Astoria? Forest Hills? Rockaway? Far Rockaway? That’s where the A train goes all the way down—”
“Okay, I get it,” he grumbles in amusement. “You have a map and you’ve been studying it.”
“I can also name all the stops on the MTA.Andthe Long Island Railroad,” I chirp with pride.
“Please don’t,” he mutters, and I chuckle. “I’m from Flushing—”
“Ah, home of the Mets.” I nod.
“And a little piece of advice,” he goes on, ignoring my spewing of New York geographical facts. “Don’t be one of those tourists who acts like they’re from here. We hate that.”
I frown. “But I’m moving there, so I’m not a tourist…”
“Doesn’t matter,” he grunts. “Anyone who’s not a New Yorker is just visiting.”
“When can you call yourself a New Yorker?” I ask, intrigued by this entire premise.
“It’s different for everyone. A state of mind.”
My face lights up. “Like the song?”
“No.Notlike the song.”
I chuckle.I like this New York grump.
