On traveling between worlds so magic can find you

Losing and finding myself in a spell cast by the city

A coven of singers walks away from the bookstore in Morningside Heights

A week after he picked me up from the Book Culture bookshop in New York City’s Morningside Heights, my beau admitted he’d noticed something was different about me the moment I’d slid into the seat next to him.

I’d taken the train from Boston to New York to meet up with a couple of friends — one visiting from England, the other a New York City resident. It was my first time traveling solo since a 2011 trip to San Francisco for a work conference. I was initially a little anxious about the adventure, but once I’d passed the point of no return and surrendered to the moment I felt a satisfying shift in my energy.

My beau is an impressively observant person, and we’ve been together for eighteen years, so I really shouldn’t have been surprised that he would pick up on this shift. And yet, I wasn’t sure how to respond to his statement. There was no criticism or reproach in it, and yet I felt like I should apologize for being other than my usual self.

He’d spent the week in Virginia with his daughter and two grandkids. Since he’d driven down and New York was on his way home, he’d offered to pick me up. Having been apart all week, I was very much looking forward to seeing him, sharing the ride, and catching up on our respective trips. I was also looking forward to getting home to my beloved cat, Cinder, my usual routines, and homey comforts.

And yet, as I sat on a slightly damp concrete bench outside our designated meeting spot — my bags, including my new book purchases, piled around my feet — I felt an unexpected sense of loss. It was as if I had stumbled across a secret door to the faerie land of my childhood dreams, only to be almost immediately exiled.

It made me a little sad.

The brief trip had been packed with movement and goodness from start to finish: wonderful meetings with friends, a book launch for one of my favorite authors, dining out, a Broadway show, and more. But what tugged at me on that last morning was not the planned events that had brought me to Manhattan (and Queens!) in the first place, but rather the moments between those events.

People say that travel changes you, and the assumption is that it’s the experience of other cultures that expands your perspective. But I agree with Confucius that wherever you go, there you are.

You need two elements for any alchemical magic, and — while being somewhere new might serve as a catalyst — who you are is the critical ingredient to the reaction.

I brought my joy and enthusiasm to all the events on my trip — delighting in meeting friends for the first time and taking in the sights and energy of one of the most vibrant cities in the world. I reveled in the juxtaposition of being a country mouse in such an urban setting, and was so grateful to share the experience with the wonderful women I had for company.

And, of course, it was nice to be away from the usual grind for a couple of days. There’s no denying that it feels good to step away from the endless and overlapping demands of day-to-day life for a bit.

But the feeling that had wrapped around my heart was more than simply the calming effect of abandoning my to-do list for forty-eight hours.

I embarked on this trip believing that travel provides an invaluable chance to get reacquainted with yourself, to remember who you once were and explore who you are becoming.

Julie Wise

reminded me that travel also gives you the chance to really be yourself, “No one know you, so there are no expectations or preconceived notions of who you are. It’s rather freeing.”

It is, indeed, Julie.

It was only on that last morning, sitting outside the bookstore awaiting the arrival of my beau, that I realized the spell the city had worked on me. Despite the surface appearances of its overwhelming architecture and bustling crowds, the city had granted me access to a liminal space in which I could gently unravel the many layers of identity I’ve wrapped around myself over the last few decades. I was able to become anonymous, invisible — to step outside myself and observe not only the strange new world around me, but also myself in the context of that unfamiliar setting.

It felt a little like time travel. Despite all the tangled challenges in my wonderful and beautiful life, despite everything happening in the world today, I felt — for just a moment — suspended in a gorgeous kaleidoscope of stories and possibilities. It felt like sinking into the bones of my younger self, the me who was seeing the world and her place in it for the first time, with unbounded optimism and excitement. But, at the same time, I felt like an ancient traveler teetering on the edge of wisdom, weathered by life’s experiences, and yet still standing, still curious, still hopeful.

My one constant companion on this trip was a pocket-sized notebook in which I wrote random thoughts and observations. As I felt the door closing on this interstitial time alone with the city, I scribbled frantically, trying to capture some small essence of what I felt.

But the feelings were too big, so I settled for taking in whatever details I could as if they might turn out to be puzzle pieces I could assemble later.

I noticed the open door of the bookstore, beckoning people in from the sidewalk still wet from early morning showers. A young couple sipping hot coffee out of travel mugs skirted around me and my bags and through the door. They were dressed in blue and yellow — she in a yellow sweater and blue pants, he in a blue shirt and yellow shorts. I wondered if they had planned this checkerboard couples ensemble or if it had been purely coincidental.

A small dog pulled on its leash, making a beeline for the interior of the store. There was a person at the end of the leash, but I didn’t notice them. My attention was only for that small, whiskered face with bright eyes and ears pricked at full attention as the tiny creature threw its whole body forward with great gusto. This was a pup on a mission, and I wondered if perhaps there was a jar of treats behind the counter. Or maybe the dog was simply a book lover.

I heard singing, and looked up to see a coven of young women all in flowing black strolling down the street. They were laughing as they walked arm in arm, leaning into each other as they harmonized snippets of random pop songs. One young woman trailed slightly behind, distracted by the sight of the open door and the cart of sale books placed on the sidewalk like a bit of unassuming bait. “But … it’s a bookstore!” she called to her friends who were too far ahead and too engrossed in their music making to hear her.

So many people. So many stories. So many places. So many versions of me. I felt the open door closing, the spell broken. I felt myself being pulled out of this magical otherworld, felt its reality slipping through my fingers. My heart ached a little, but it was time to go home. And that is its own kind of magic.

Come on in. There are stories enough for all.