It comes in waves, missing my old life.
A song came on my Spotify playlist, and it just took me back. My life in New York. And I started crying uncontrollably.
Nostalgia is a wicked thing. You only remember the good parts. We’re programmed to forget the harder stuff. But still, something about my time in New York was different. Something was magical. Even though I’ve lived twice as long in San Francisco (and I love San Francisco), it wasn’t the same kind of magic.
I do miss the neighborhoods of San Francisco, the Haight Ashbury where I used to live, my favorite Goodwill store, the quirky events like the How Weird Festival, the fog, the murals in the Mission, the bakeries in Inner Richmond. The views. It was full of color and texture.
I miss my days living in Paris, too. I was only 24 then and living abroad on my own for the first time, taking a year to get my French culinary certificate. Even though it was a challenging year in so many ways, it wasn’t hard to fall completely enchanted by the magic of Paris.
But New York — New York got under my skin in a different way.
When I First Moved to New York
It was early 2021, still COVID-ish. I didn’t get what the hype was about. Why does everyone worship this city? It felt overrated, overhyped. Expensive restaurants that weren’t even that good. Dirty streets. Gloomy. People were cold. I didn’t know anyone. I was still married, going through a really rough year.
We settled-in in a lovely neighborhood, Fort Greene, next to a charming park. But I didn’t feel like myself. I didn’t feel connected, I felt alone. Before the year ended, I broke it up with my husband.
And maybe that’s what it took to finally see New York. To be single. To understand what makes this city tick.
New York is Not Paris
After falling in love with Paris, I couldn’t imagine another city topping it. But New York wasn’t trying to be Paris. It took me time to realize that its charm isn’t in its streets or its shows or its restaurants.
It’s the people.
And no place in the world has people like New York. I started dating and I got back into dancing. Through those two activities, I met people vastly different from me and I loved it. I loved the anonymity, the experimentation, the aliveness.
Dating helped me explore my identity. Like Ali Wong said on her new shit after her divorce: “I was on sale!”. I dated men. I dated women. I met artists, engineers, weirdos, quiet people, bold ones. Even the terrible dates were fascinating.
The New York Social Dance Scene Saved Me
I went back to dancing Lindy Hop after eight years pausing this passion. Nervous to go back, I forced myself to go the first time to a Lincoln Center summer party. Surprised that my body remembered the steps like I never stopped, I celebrated with a solo nightcap at the Momofuku Noodle Bar, eating the cold spicy noodles, a dish I’m often longing for these days, not because it’s the most delicious noodle dish in the world (it’s probably in the top ten though), but because it reminds me of that small victory.
From there, I was hooked.
Every night of the week, I could find an event. Live music. A dance floor. A group of people I knew, or would soon know. And we all shared a common language of the dance. It became my lifeline.
Later I opened up to some new dance styles and I discovered the West Coast Swing scene and the Blues social dancing community.
I arranged sitters every week and hopped on the subway to Manhatten: Flow Fridays, Somewhere Nowhere, Friday Night Blues, Fancy Holiday Productions with three floors of live bands, Monday nights at the backroom, Swing Remix at the Good Shepherd Church. It was incredible. I felt this elusive belongingness that I yearned for for so long.
I Was Brave There
I was bold in a way I hadn’t been before. I showed up solo. I let myself be seen. I made a circle of people, even a few close ones. It was hard work, especially as a late 30s divorcing mom introvert with social anxiety and zero stability in my life.
There were magical moments. Like when I got invited to a private blues party overlooking Central Park with a live trio. Or a West Village event catered with sushi and patisserie, with incredible people dancing. Or when a friend took me to a Russian bath house in Jersey and we slapped each other with a herb bouquet in the sauna.
Even though my life was a mess, I was on top of the world.
I created that. It didn’t fall into my lap.
And Then I Left
Now I’m back in Tel Aviv.
I thought it would be easier here. Socially, culturally, logistically. But it’s not. I feel less confident. Less seen. The dance scene is smaller. Events are capped at a medium level of fun. People feel less open. More competitive. The music isn’t as good. The vibe is more small-town.
I tried. I went out. I put effort in for months. But I left most events depleted instead of energized.
I know I built something extraordinary in New York — but I also know that kind of experience takes time, effort, and a city that gives back. And this place? I’m not yet sure whether it would give back in the same way.
Nostalgia Is a Wicked Thing
I know what they say: nostalgia makes us look back with rose-tinted glasses when our present is missing something. And that’s probably true.
But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t special. That doesn’t mean I’m wrong to grieve it.
It took everything I had to build that life. That community. That magic. And now, I’m mourning it.
I’m letting the sadness come. I’m sitting with it. Feeling it deeply. Because I think grief deserves that. Even grief for a life well-lived.
And maybe, just maybe, something new is around the corner. Maybe not New York-level magic. But maybe something I can’t yet see.
Still — what a gift that time was.
