‘I carried him screaming through the night streets of the village’

One more thing

Dear Diary:

I moved to New York City from my home in South Carolina in 1976 with the goal of becoming a freelance photographer.

I packed all my worldly possessions into a U-Haul truck and headed north. My wife, who was pregnant at the time, followed in our VW camper.

Eight months later, our son, Nicholas, was born at St. Vincent’s Hospital in Greenwich Village.

The next few years were a whirlwind of excitement and adventure. We used to live in the Village, on Jones Street.

Nicholas was a colicky baby and I received many disapproving looks as I carried him screaming through the nighttime streets of the village in the hope of calming him down.

Three years later we moved to Brooklyn Heights, which was almost like a suburb. We were on Henry Street and later on Lower Court Street.

A second child followed in 1982, but this boy from the South became increasingly dissatisfied with raising a family in the big city, no matter how much I loved living there.

Every time I returned to La Guardia from an out-of-town assignment, seeing the New York skyline through the window of a yellow cab on the way home stirred my heart and soul. But the truth was, I needed more room to move.

That’s why we decided to leave in 1987. A moving company loaded most of our belongings and we packed our Isuzu Trooper as tightly as possible while still leaving enough room for the four of us.

There was one thing we had to do before we finally said goodbye to the city.

Crossing Manhattan on Canal Street, we stopped next to a Sabrett’s cart and ordered four dogs. I got mine with mustard and cabbage.

—Charles West

Helping hands

Dear Diary:

I was on a busy southbound #1 train traveling from Riverdale to Midtown. Standing across from me was a young woman with long, curly hair and long, synthetic nails.

I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she tried to open a can of soda. Her nails made the action impossible.

After she made about five attempts, a middle-aged man standing next to her, who had also been watching her from the corner of his eye, quietly took the can from her hands, opened it and handed it back.

– Elana Kieffer

Crying in public

Dear Diary:

Crying in public is one of my favorite experiences in New York. I shed a tear on the subway when I hear a certain song or read a sentence from a book that moves me.

I’ve cried on the steps of Union Square Station about boys and jobs. It’s so cathartic. As I cry, life continues around me, reminding me that my tears are small and temporary.

One time I ran into my ex-boyfriend, exactly three months after we broke up. He was coming out of the Beverley Road Q station as I went inside.

We both stood still. I saw his face shrink.

“Can I give you a hug?” he asked.

I nodded.

We held each other and cried for just a minute as people swarmed around us. We said we missed each other.

The woman we bought tamales from looked at us. Maybe she could guess what had happened.

I heard the train below us and we parted ways.

“Have a nice day, honey,” he said.

That old term of endearment rang in my ears as I stood weeping on the platform.

An old woman smiled at me. A child looked at me curiously. Life went on.

– Divya Bharadwaj

Famous guest

Dear Diary:

I was working the box office at an Off Broadway show when my boss told me that a celebrity guest was expected that evening.

By the time the show was about to start, no celebrity had appeared yet. Then, with a minute to go, walking came across a man I recognized as the actor Paul Sorvino and an entourage of three.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Sorvino,” I said. ‘The show is about to start. I will lead you to your seat.”

The man seemed slightly nervous.

“My name is Aiello,” he said. “Danny Aiello, young man.”

I’m still smart.

– Scott Colder

First time

Dear Diary:

I’m from Toronto and my oldest friend lives in London. Every few years we meet in New York for a week of fun.

Last summer we were in a gallery in the West Village looking at prints based on posters from old Bob Dylan concerts.

After a while we started talking to the owner. He asked when we had first come to the city in our lives.

My friend surprised me by saying that when he was ten, his parents took him to New York to see a specialist because they were concerned that he was small and not growing.

“How tall are you?” the gallery owner asked.

“Six feet,” my friend said.

The owner stopped.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said finally.

My boyfriend and I are in our late sixties.

– Dan Diamant

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee