Once my train approached the 125^th Street station, my weekend began. Harlem’s vibrant sidewalks sounded like jazz and smelled like lavender. Babbalucci’s Italian restaurant was a Friday night staple.

I had my own special table. The waiters knew my name. A big stack of books and wine would dazzle me, as I awaited the best pizza pie in Manhattan. Halfway into my salami pizza, the phone rang. It was dad, calling from California.

“Anthony, there’s a huge blizzard about to hit the Northeast. Did you go to the grocery store?” he asked, with panic.

“Every snow storm is the blizzard of the century, out here. I’m fine. Nothing will shut down. I love you.” I replied, quite calmly.

After hanging up, I finished my pie. Glowing after a delicious meal, I surveyed the contents of my fridge. Shit, it was just bottled water and whisky. Imagining the mad rush at the local Associates Supermarket, I stayed home. Watching stupid cat videos on YouTube had more appeal.

As food coma and sleep attempted to set. Unfortunately, the screeching sounds of snow trucks kept me from a nighttime slumber. A few hours later, grey skies reflected against my modest studio apartment’s barren walls. Morning had arrived.

“Oh, geez, let’s see what this massive snowstorm looks like, such hype,” I said to myself.

Seventh Avenue disappeared with white powder. The sky mirrored a furious sand storm. My dad might have been right. It was definitely a blizzard. As a brave New Yorker, I put on a pea coat, and headed to Lenox Coffee.

Upon opening my door, the snow had accumulated to unprecedented levels. I walked to the corner deli. To my surprise, it was closed.

Shit, the deli never closes. Whisky for breakfast would be fun. However, solid food sounds even more appetizing. I tested my luck, and decided to proceed to Lenox Coffee.

The brownstone-lined block between Seventh to Lenox Avenue was quite long. Bravely, I made the trek. The snow filled pavement made it an obstacle course. My feet grew tired. Snow blinded my eyes. However, I didn’t want to detour from a beloved Saturday morning ritual.

The block couldn’t have been longer. Like a champion hiker, I survived. Lenox Avenue was a mess. It’s jazz and lavender filled pavement had hit the snooze button. Cars splashed my pea coat with ice particles.

A corner McDonald’s provided the only bit of yellow light. Tired from the blizzard, I took a bold step for foodies, everywhere.

“I’ll take a biscuit breakfast sandwich, hash browns, and black coffee, please.” I said to the McDonald’s cashier.

After receiving my order, I sat down and ate the (surprisingly) scrumptious breakfast. It might not have been Lenox Coffee, but it was quite satisfying. After energizing meal, I crossed the overly long block, again.

Hibernating became quite thrilling. News reports announced the blizzard would become New York City’s second worst in history. Outside my window, people had snow fights and pranced merrily with snowboards. With the excitement, cabin fever eventually set in.

The next morning, New York and I woke up to blue skies. Per usual routine, I buttoned up my pea coat and marched toward Lenox Coffee. The long brownstone block was shoveled and salted. Tenement lined Lenox Avenue dazzled with snow banks.

Without tripping, I finally made it to Lenox Coffee. Harlem was resurrected, and I had survived another New York blizzard (I’ve lived through two of the biggest blizzards, February 2010 & January 2016).

Strolling back to my apartment, I battled for sidewalk space. Later that morning, I texted dad, “that was fun.” Within a few months, I moved to Southern California. These days, I still daydream of blizzards, coffee shops, brownstones, jazz-filled Lenox Avenue, and a mighty pea coat.

“Shit, I think I like stress. It’s my friend. I hate meditation and happy thoughts. I can only function when pressure rides high.” Cue the depressing 90’s alternative rock.

When I blew the candles on my thirty-three year old birthday cake, the pursuit of happiness stopped. Ironically, it made me a much more fulfilled person. Initially, it was fueled with my move back to California.

New York encompassed all things, which made me very grumpy. Crowds, bugs, perpetual noise, stairs (oh, god, so many stairs), a shrinking middle class, and superficiality morphed Gotham into my worst nightmare.

I’d sit out form my fire escape, bored with the constant sea of tenements. I longed to see mountains and hear chirping crickets. I decided to trade Manhattan for Riverside, CA (my hometown).

When my plane took off at LaGuardia Airport, traffic flowed below. People were going to work. Someone new would call my Harlem studio, home. Some lucky gal or fellow would take over my old job, with great benefits. My life now belonged to the rolling hills, coffee shops, and orange groves of the Inland Empire.

As I crossed the Hudson, the world was still held together. The flight across the nation reminded me of prosperity. Obama care, gay marriage, and a society slightly more united had its influence from rural prairies to Los Angeles.

Within the first six months in Southern California, the Orlando massacre shook the nation. Donald Trump was elected president. (On a more personal note) I had failed both my teaching exams, and returned to college, to obtain a second bachelor’s degree.

My New York neurosis didn’t depart, even in laid-back California. With the state of the world and professional setbacks, I became quite agitated. I longed to return to my very own “age of innocence” (thank you, Edith Wharton).

The last few years in New York had its turbulent moments. It was also a time of stability. Steady apartment, job, routine and familiarity provided a safety net. However, I needed a professional change. Teaching was more ideal.

In California, more challenges, reinventions, and unexpected failures appeared. It remained a risk. As I glared at the mountains from my bedroom, it made me miss Harlem.

The old tenements, jazz music roaring through Lenox Avenue, little bookshops, brownstones, and coffee shops they dazzled my life. Officially, I was homesick for New York City. (Thanks to circumstances, California remained home.)

Books, walks, and writing became a source of extreme distraction. It didn’t make happier, but certainly distracted me. During the last six months in California, I had read several books and written many stories. It served as therapy, since I couldn’t afford an actual shrink.

When I moved across the country, I thought, California would become a permanent home. Now, I realized grass is yellow and dry, everywhere. New York with it’s many downfalls, will probably become home again. I’ll accept it for every flaw, since perfection is the death of stimulation.