The Summer I Turned Seventeen
The One Where My Mom Dropped Me Off in NYC the Summer I Turned Seventeen
As soon as you arrive, it’s as if the city invites you to participate in its own personal scavenger hunt. The clues have been laid for decades, the only time limit is the one you’ve defined for yourself, and there’s about 8 million other participants. It’s all fair play — you can’t lose, and only stand to gain.
As a seventeen year-old, about to be unsupervised in the city for weeks, I avidly accepted.
This wasn’t my first trip to New York, yet I was blissfully unaware of the thrills those labyrinthine alleys and bustling avenues held for me that summer.
The only caveat? There’s no “scavenging” list provided; it’s simply based on how much curiosity the city is able to spark within you. At that point, you just have to decide if you’re up for the challenge.
When the yellow taxi stopped abruptly in front of NYU’s summer student apartments, my gladiator sandals hit the sidewalk and I was instantly hugged by a verisimilar early autumn breeze while green leaves bounced across the pavement. In my days and weeks to come, I would quickly discover this friendly zephyr was as fleeting as the outer skin on my pinky toes.
What actually welcomed me, is what I now know as “false Fall” and “New Yorker feet.”
Nevertheless, the greeting has since served as a fond memory and a lesson: never trust what season you think it is in New York City and always take shoes you can commit to without regret (still working on the latter).
Three hefty bags, four flights of stairs and a broken elevator later, I entered my tiny shared apartment suite and found myself face-to-face with the most idyllic neighbor I could ever imagine. This is who I would be sharing my early mornings, evenings, and late nights with. None other than: Washington. Square. Park.
The window at the center of my unshared room would be the best company I could have ever hoped for. That window — overlooking the strollers and the sunbathers — would come to be so much more than just a picturesque neighbor, but instead, the best roommate I would ever have.
Rolling it back to the present for a sec to speak from experience (over a decade and some four kids and a husband later) I can confirm: Washington Square Park — best roommate ever.
It’s a pity I didn’t know it at the time.
Blueberry iBook Energy
Did I mention that this was my experience while Sex and the City was at its peak? Well, it was.
Now, imagine me: seventeen, in New York for the summer, overlooking Washington Square Park.
What did I do next?
You guessed it! I pulled out my blueberry clamshell Apple iBook and updated my MySpace status, of course!
Can you roll your eyes hard enough? No, no you can’t. But little did I know... that would be the first and only time my MySpace status got an update during this trip.
Roll your eyes if you must, but I was on the verge of having the absolute time of my life. If I had tried to document correctly utilizing the social media approach, my status would’ve required an update every 30 minutes and would’ve captured maybe 15% of the moment.
Instead, my iBook hit its memory capacity from me attempting to use Word as if it were a diary. After that, I started sending myself emails instead. My Yahoo! account became my own personal journaled conversation with myself.
Myself and some of my newest friends, were scheduled for classes at FIT each week from 9AM to 3:30PM Monday–Thursday. The rest of the time, was our time.
The time we got to let New York transform into the ultimate scavenger hunt. As I mentioned before — there wasn’t an actual “scavenger list.” But if you think there is, it's because New York has already flipped that curiosity switch inside you, and suddenly, you're on the lookout for everything and nothing all at once. That was us.
Every time I glanced out my window with my clamshell iBook at my fingertips, my inner Carrie Bradshaw was present.
At night, Friends DVDs looped on my iBook. My second evening, I’m laying in bed watching a few episodes at midnight, and stuffing my face with snacks and washing it down with a glass-bottled Coke I snagged from the “super-chic” bodega on the way home from class.
Mid-episode, I remembered that the Friends episodes seemingly took place in the same area I was staying, and this gave me a comforting nudge of nostalgia.
The next day, I set out in search of the “Friends apartment building” on the way to class (found it, BTW).
Anna Wintour took over my brain every morning when I got dressed before hopping onto the subway in 6-inch heels to make my way to Seventh Avenue. Before heading to class, I would snag an affogato from the most French-themed cafe in America I had ever laid eyes on. Because one way or another, I would have ice cream for breakfast.
There was somewhat of a grunge-y Vogue appeal to the little routine I had developed so far. From that point, all of the unplanned frolicking continued to do anything but disappoint.
This little rebellious ritual came with a side of morning motivation I haven’t quite acquired since... now that I think about it.
A Girl, A Juki, and a MetroCard
During an age where “pics or it didn’t happen” was just finding a name for itself, I found myself unintentionally in no short supply of content and in no hurry to post it.
Our days were alternated between various studio sessions depending on the fashion courses we had selected when we enrolled.
On Tuesday and Thursday mornings, I'd be floundering in a sea of fabric and thread, face-to-face with my perpetual rival (also known as a Juki Industrial). I was a true picture of sewing failure, and then completely reignited by an insatiable curiosity in the afternoon as I moved between the digital illustration lab and the print media studio.
Mondays and Wednesdays, I dove into the rich, fabulous history of trailblazing designers — the ones who paved the runway for us all.
By the afternoon, everything felt like a girl scout outing (Phyllis Nefler-style) as we were led from design studios to mannequin makers, fabric purveyors, and through the halls of glossy magazine HQs.
My days had room — and an open invitation — for any and every possibility the city wanted to share with me.
Why Sleep When You Can
One day I’m stumbling upon Kat Von D, another I’m eating spaghetti on a fire escape in Queens admiring the city’s skyline as the sun said its farewell for the day.
It was curiosity that couldn’t quit.
It was walking Waverly Place completely barefoot — save your thoughts. I absolutely understand how insane this was. This is what walking miles and miles in heels day after day will do to your brain (or mine at least).
It was getting lost in record stores, bookshops, and hobby havens, and spending hours there.
It was squeezing every last drop of free or discounted entrance fees from our university IDs to get into every museum we possibly could so we could discover the beauty behind art and styles you’ve never seen or heard of.
It was checking off as many park visits as possible and then harshly laying out their pros and cons.
It was hunting down anyone any of us knew that lived in the city so we could have a TV to watch that night’s episode of Project Runway.
It was making friends in Hell’s Kitchen, Chinatown and Little Italy, only to be introduced to all of the really amazing food and seeing first-hand how it’s made.
It was getting whimsical tattoos in the Village after dark, because — why not?
It was finding unmarked doors, forgotten streets, hidden passages and their balconies, window walkways, bookstore apartments, and secret libraries.
Textiles and Other Trapdoors
We pretended fabric warehouses in Chinatown were our own version of a “House of Mirrors” at a hometown carnival; except, we didn’t want out. We just wanted to stay lost.
Unbeknownst to us (especially at the time), we had “FOMO” about the fabrics and textiles that possibly laid beyond — or deep behind — the first few shelved cloths.
I’m not sure the fire marshal would have approved (or still does) of some of the layouts over there, but I for one will give them all 5 stars and a pass for keeping garment hunting alive in New York for kids in fashion education, and anyone else requiring fabrics and upholstery to create something marvelous. It’s like hunting for your own food.
A Version of Me Only New York Knew
There’s an unmatched thrill to waking up at seventeen in a city bursting with endless possibilities, with no clue what the day will bring and absolutely no one telling you how to navigate it. It’s pure, unfiltered freedom wrapped in the excitement of the unknown.
It sparks a certain motivation that is fairly difficult to describe.
Every bit of it that lingers screams early 2000s teenage glory. I get it, and I’m completely at peace with that — fried hair, orange-y tan, and all. Because somehow, in the middle of all that cringey charm, it ignited a spark that still flickers inside me today.
The recollection I’ve shared sheds only the smallest light on the hidden corridors, historical corners, and unforgettable camaraderie I experienced that summer. New York became our untamed playground, and silently promised to always be just that.
Returning Is a Ritual
Nearly a decade later, I realized that this amazing summer became a crucial dot that would ultimately connect it all.
While the foundations for what led me to where I am didn’t start here, the city that never sleeps certainly solidified those dreams. Now, almost two decades later, I understand why I’ve returned to New York year after year since that summer.
The city doesn’t care how you got there — just that you did.
The welcome that exists among the chaos will always be waiting with open arms.
Time is never forgotten in this place, and once you’ve lived in a New York moment, the city is yours forever.
The city’s nooks and crevices absolutely radiate with a kind of magic only known to those willing to dig. It collectively intertwines a treasure hunt and an endurance test, with a holistically rewarding outcome.
