As the one-year anniversary of WFH approaches, I am on my way to my office on a Sunday.
On this blustery March Sunday, I am on my way to my office. Not to work because we are still closed for the duration, but my work neighborhood down in lower Manhattan where I have not set foot in almost a year.
My last day in the office was Thursday, March 12th, 2020, and as the one-year anniversary of working from home has been approaching, I have been having dreams of being there. Simple and mundane dreams like stopping at Voyager Coffee inside the Fulton Street subway station near the John Street exit and walking towards the office, my legs making wide strides in knee-high boots.
Sometimes I hold an umbrella, but the rain doesn’t bother me because I’m walking to a destination. I have not had a true “destination” for a year. Every day feels the same running together like water mixing with leaves. Day runs into night, work runs into life, and I see no end. And so, I thought, I will shake things up by “going to work” on a Sunday.
I am anticipating all the emotions I’m going to feel when I step onto Broadway and face my building, a statuesque white marble skyscraper on Broadway between Fulton and Dey Streets.
I have missed seeing the building and the traffic coming down the street — the hustle and bustle of it. I’ve missed the smells of hotdogs boiling in water and mustard at the ready. I’ve missed the smells of tar, and coffee, and the sweet smell of flowers being sold near the front door of the station.
As I disembark the train and walk through the station, I am taking it all in. The boarded-up store fronts, the bathrooms that are closed because of the pandemic, the Irving Farm coffee kiosk that is closed, showing that things have surely changed. Yet the ride up the escalator feels the same, and I push the same door to exit. The street scene is quieter but then it’s also a Sunday. I face my office building and snap a photo with my phone. It looks the same, but I feel empty.
Lunch is first on the agenda and I want to see if GRK on Fulton Street is open so I can get my favorite salad: kale with grilled chicken, feta, and black-eyed peas. I am disappointed but not surprised to find they are closed today, so I head over to Maiden Lane and Field’s Good Chicken, another place I have not visited in a while. I get a Bueno bowl to go and walk towards my building again, this time to go inside. I don’t go upstairs — I don’t even think I’m allowed. I go into the Anthropologie store at street level to browse and soak in the sense of the place which also seems changed. Not only are there fewer customers but the clothes are mostly lounge wear and I have enough leggings and T-shirts for the end of time. Again, I feel nothing.
I leave and find a bench in front of the Millennium Hilton hotel to eat my lunch while facing the Oculus, the winged building that’s the entrance to the World Trade Center Complex. This too is different as I would normally take my lunch upstairs to eat at my desk. Here I eat while wearing fingerless gloves, while the wind whirls around me.
After I finish, I cross the street and enter the Oculus mall to walk around and warm up, and to check out one of my favorite stores & Other Stories, and to use the bathroom. It is amazing how important bathrooms have become during the pandemic when one is out exploring while socially distancing. The store does not disappoint. It’s exactly how it used to be, a curated collection of stylish clothes and accessories from all over the world. I pick up white button-down shirt decorated with eyelet and some toiletry products, and I feel happy that I supported a brick-and-mortar business instead of ordering the products online.
After my mall walk, I cross over to West Broadway and then to Hudson Street into Tribeca. I used to make this walk after work in the early evenings when the weather was nice. I’d stroll up the avenues and take interesting pictures of warehouses that are now apartments and office spaces. Sometimes I’d stop to get a drink in a bar, or a cup of coffee of tea in a cafe. Sometimes I’d venture into a gourmet shop or wine store to pick up sundries for dinner, but mostly I’d walk to see the neighborhood and its buildings.
It was on one of these walks that I discovered one of New York City’s few covered skybridges in the alley called Staples Street, a sliver of a street located near Hudson and Jay Streets. I now call this little visual treasure “my TriBeCa bridge,” and I was looking forward to seeing it. I haven’t seen it in over a year. I’m pretty sure the last time I saw it up close was in September 2019.
As I approach the street, I stop to take a photo of a horse head finial on one of the iron fences in Duane Park, and as I approach the alley, I witness a fashion photoshoot — a poor woman is wearing nothing but a bathing suit on this 40-degree day. I walk several steps away and look up and the bridge is completely obscured with scaffolding that covers both adjacent buildings. Another disappointment but no matter. At least I am here.
I leave and walk back East again to West Broadway and see one of the neighborhood’s classic eateries, The Odeon, the bistro made famous in Jay McInerny’s fiction. As with many of the City’s restaurants and cafes, they have a hopping outdoor sidewalk business, and I am thankful for that because I think they will be here when I’m back to work for real.
I walk a bit further and snap a few more photos of the buildings which never get old to me, even though many are possibly two hundred years or more. I stop in a bakery to get a few cookies, and then I head to the closest subway station at Canal street.
As I wait for the train to arrive, I think I’m surprised that the emotions did not overwhelm me today. I was expecting I would cry when I saw my office and did the things I used to do so often. I’m sure that’s coming later this year when I am reunited with my colleagues. When I take the elevator up to the 22nd floor at 195 Broadway and step onto my floor and walk to my cubicle. The tears will flow when I see my friends in my lower Manhattan neighborhood and I can reach out to hug them. I won’t ever be ungrateful for them again.
