Lifestyle

Rewind to this past Sunday morning: the last day of my winter break (or so I thought)….

My bags were packed as I was about to head back to New York for my final semester at NYU. As always, my time home in LA served as an opportunity to cleanse and rejuvenate my mind, body, and spirit before returning to the crazy city. Before leaving, though, I ended my winter break in the best, most appropriate way that I possibly could have – by riding in one last SoulCycle class, with my favorite instructor, the sorcerer of spin himself, David Zint.

Whenever I’m in LA, I make sure to take David’s classes at SoulCycle as often as I can – 45 minutes of pure adrenaline and booming melodies, liberating sprints out of the saddle and empowering climbs, all infused with unique mantras of hope and encouragement spoken by Mr. Zint himself through his mic, that make you feel stronger and prouder of your being, on that yellow bike and past the studio’s glass doors.

David and I had talked about my departure date prior to today’s class, so he knew that today would be my last ride for some time, with him and our solid, tight-knit community of riders that I have grown to love and hold close to my heart.

As I slipped on my spin shoes, grabbed my water bottle, and stepped into the studio, ready to sit on my regular bike #10, David proclaimed with excitement, “You’re leaving! Today is your farewell ride! You’re riding up on the podium!” I was thrilled to be riding on the podium, face-to-face with my pack of riders; but even more so, I was humbled by David’s faith in me to help lead the class, and his thoughtfulness and dedication to making me feel special and acknowledged – as he does for each and every one of his riders, regardless of the occasion.

I was on the podium waiting for the ride to begin, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous to spin in front of the whole class. What if I miss the beat or slip and fall on my face? But then, the lights above us dimmed as the spotlights below me beamed up, illuminating my body and making me feel vulnerably transparent, free of any inhibitions to hide. The music rose as I felt the bass vibrating through me. My legs started moving and increasing in speed until the sight of the pedals blurred and then evaporated. And then, I could have sworn I was flying.

As the class progressed and the ride intensified, my nerves lessened with each electric “tap back” and every “slow press in third,” as David roared phrases of motivation and gratitude to all of us.

“Looking good up there on the podium… He’s leaving us to go back to New York, everyone! We’re going to miss you, Daniel!” he said. And the class cheered and shouted. I was stunned and overwhelmed at David’s generosity and motivation, and the rest of the class’ supportive outpouring of compassion, as they celebrated my presence once more and sent me off with a final sprint.

And in the sweaty blink of an eye, the class ended; I grounded myself again as the music softened and the lights gently lit up again. David uttered a string of words to everyone to conclude, a phrase that continues to echo in my mind: “I’d say welcome home, but you’re already home.”

In that moment, my anxieties of leaving home to return to New York, in the midst of a frantic snowstorm, abandoned me. Suddenly, the fact that I was leaving became irrelevant, and the fact that I was present there was all that mattered. David made me realize that “home” is something I can carry with me, wherever I go, in the depths of my mind and the crevices of my soul (no pun intended). It seems that the existence of “home” is not contingent upon location or geography, but thrives off of our acknowledgment of the communities and the people that love us, support us, and embrace us for who we are, wherever we may be.

As I got up off the bike and stepped out of my sweaty safe heaven and into the studio’s lobby, I opened my locker to gather my belongings to rush home, zip up my luggage, and dash off to LAX to fly back to New York on time. My phone was in my hand as the screen lit up with an email from Virgin America: “FLIGHT ALERT: SORRY, YOUR FLIGHT HAS BEEN CANCELLED DUE TO WEATHER CONDITIONS,” it read.

I shared the news with my fellow riders; we cheered that I could stay in sunny LA for a bit longer, and laughed at the fact that my “farewell ride” had no immediate “farewell” to follow. How anticlimactic…! I guess “farewell” is an elusive and even misleading term anyway. From my past experience, most of the time, when we say “goodbye” or “farewell,” we’re just being dramatic, and what we truly mean is, “see you later,” regardless of when “later” may be.

Now that I’m finally back in New York (after an inconveniently timed snowstorm and two cancelled flights), I’ve had a chance to reflect back on my ride that day…and all I have to say is, thank you. To my family of riders – thank you for sharing in the journey with me, wherever it takes us. And to you, David Zint – thank you for instilling in me a passion to climb higher, to sprint faster, to endure the ride, and to acknowledge the worth of my presence and existence, on and off the bike. You are truly an inspiration, my friend, and I am grateful that you comprise a part of my home, wherever my travels may lead me.

See you later…!

SoulCycle West Hollywood – 8570 West Sunset Blvd, West Hollywood, CA 90069

Now that I’m home in LA for my last ever college winter break, I realize how quickly the time has passed since I began at NYU as a curious freshman, new to the shimmering concrete jungle. Each time I return home from New York, a comforting sense of familiarity and sameness greets me and welcomes me back to my original stomping ground. The same faces, the same voices, the same sounds, and the same sights are always present, seemingly unaffected by time – and thank God, because I have always hated change.

One of my favorite parts of visiting home is driving in my car and gazing at the swaying palm trees that delicately embellish the bold blue sky. This sight represents solace, security, and relief, reminding me that no matter how much time passes, some things will always remain the same, like LA’s landscape.

I drove down Beverly Drive today with my sunroof open, wearing my new pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses. As I reached a stop sign, I swiftly took off my glasses to clean its lenses with my t-shirt. When I looked down at them, I was initially perplexed, but then, I was strangely delighted and intrigued by what I saw. Staring back at me was the reflection of my beloved blue skies and towering palm trees on my black lenses, covered with tiny particles of dust. No longer appearing vastly above me, its reflection looked small, warped, curved, and cased within two plastic frames in my hand. The familiar suddenly became unfamiliar.

As I reflect on my past at NYU, freshman Daniel is no longer familiar to me; I am not the same person that I was during my previous visits home for winter break, as I’ve reached a new place in my life. I am finally a senior now, with much more understanding, curiosity, and perspective than I had when I began my undergraduate career. Soon enough, I will cross the threshold into a realm that lies beyond NYU’s borders and past LA’s familiar streets. Like the reflection of the sky and the trees, I feel as though I’ve transformed in some shape or form and have adapted to the ever-changing contexts of my life – a reality that I am sure we can all distinctly relate to.

It seems, therefore, that no matter how much we strive to hold onto the familiarity of the past and the comfort of the present, life takes on new forms – just as my cherished blue skies and palm trees did in my lenses. But if we acknowledge the presence of difference and open our eyes to the beauty of change, we can view our lives from new viewpoints with a refreshing sense of clarity. In doing so, we gain vaster perspective and deeper understanding of our progressions and ourselves – as everything around us and within us beholds the potential to transform.

On a night like New Year’s Eve, when everyone dresses up and dances into the night in celebration of a new day, life can feel like a vibrant dream, reminiscent of a fairytale.

Thinking back, in Cinderella’s case though, the magic lasted only until midnight. Once she got ready to attend the ball with the help of her fairy godmother, rode away into the night on her pumpkin-turned-carriage, and danced on glass with her true love, our princess only had a few brief hours to seize her opportunity at a life of royalty and freedom, before she morphed back into a withered servant.

Indeed, Cinderella’s pre-midnight-magic enabled her life changing dance with the prince during the ball; nevertheless, the true spark, the main event, if you will, occurred following the ball, after the clock struck twelve, as the prince sought through the entire kingdom to find his mystery girl the next day. And when he did, it was love at first sight all over again, even after the magic seemingly expired. Soon after, Cinderella turned into a princess, but more importantly, she became an autonomous individual without the help of any “bippity boppity boo” magic, but as a result of her own power and choice to keep hope alive for love. She courageously shattered conventional class standards, to openly welcome what the future beheld for her, even after the magic faded.

Here in reality, the defining moment of our New Year’s Eve will also be when the clock strikes twelve – with champagne bubbling, corks popping, glittering confetti streaming through the air, and lovers sharing a kiss at the final countdown. Even though our evening festivities peak at twelve AM, New Year’s Eve celebrates the lasting promise of new beginnings, full of excitement, hope, romance, and infinite possibility, that continue well beyond the “3-2-1” into the following chapters of our lives.

So with all due respect to the classic tale, Cinderella’s fairy godmother was wrong: the magic doesn’t expire at midnight; midnight is just the beginning. Let us celebrate this next beginning to embrace all of the enchanting, fresh chances that follow the countdown. As Cinderella teaches us in part, we must bask in the magic that lingers on the other side of midnight – the wonder that perpetuates eternally that doesn’t come from the wave of a wand, but from within ourselves and our faith in the sparkling mystery of what’s next.

Chelsea Market – 75 9th Ave, New York, NY 10011

Grateful…

For blue skies

For the sun that makes our days just a little bit brighter

For driving…with the windows down on sunny days, listening to blaring music – while the hair on our heads dance in the blowing wind for us as we remain stationary in our seats

For music and having no fear of reaching “maximum volume”

For the friends that share in these California drives with us, and the adventures that come about from them

For the New York subway system – simply because of those who dance on the train and shamelessly make the platforms their stages

For the opportunity to travel the world

For home

For airports and the big, welcoming signs within them, held by the hands of loved ones that jump up and down and run to us from across the terminal before we hug them with all our might

For old friends and new friends – the ones that were born into our lives from the start, and the ones that come up out of nowhere, like sparks that jump out of a fire pit at random at a bonfire on the beach

For the beach – the vivacious crashing of the blue waves and the sand that collects between our toes

For the sweetness of maple syrup that seeps between our fingers, making our hands stick together like paws

For s’mores and ice cream and cake and sprinkles on everything, and for indulgence

For the warm cups of coffee in the morning that steam in our faces and pair perfectly with yesterday’s leftover chocolate-chip cookies that we nibble on – and for the crumbs that spill all over the sheets

For the yearning eyes that beg for a bite that belong to the faces of our furry four-legged friends

For clouds that force us to be cozy

For waking up in the morning

For late night conversations about television and music and art and love that unravel into morning

For love

For heartbreaks that make the experience of love somewhat worthwhile

For hopelessly hopeful romantics that believe in love as their religion

For romantic comedies – and all comedies for that matter

For age-old tradition and for breaking tradition, and for collecting its broken pieces to craft new rituals and beliefs that open new doors for generations to come

For youth and for its fresh voices – and for past generations whose voices will echo eternally

For calling “wrinkles” “laughter lines”

For growing up but never growing old

For making mistakes and learning from them – and laughing at them, and then making new ones again

For laughter

For our flaws and imperfections and for celebrating them with pride

For presents and gifts wrapped in glistening metallic wrapping, with bows the size of our faces stuck on top of their boxes

For family and loved ones and seeing them smile

For champagne and flying corks that weave through streaming rainbow confetti

For birthdays and anniversaries and New Year’s Eves

For wanting to believe in magic

For butterflies – the thousands in the sky and the millions in our stomachs

For the experiences that hurt us so deeply and push us to the ground that give us no choice but to get up and move forward in the direction of progress and eventual triumph

For victory and for loss – and for the distinction between the two that we think exists

For the rain that trickles and then pours from the depths of the sky, that quietly tap our windowpanes, drench our clothes, and drown our inhibitions

For tears

For the little things that turn out to be big things

For weekends, and knowing that Monday is only temporary

For the chance at an education that makes us question why we ever wanted to become a doctor or a lawyer in the first place

For those brave enough to dream of being astronauts and olympians when they grow up

For time

For strangers that surprise us with delight – momentarily or for a lifetime

For eyes that capture a world’s worth

For the promise of a new day and a fresh start

For vibrant sunsets that radiate hope for tomorrow, with shades of blazing red, crimson orange, glowing violet, and electric blue that all bleed into one another and glare before us

And for our beating hearts of the same warm hue, that keep us alive and enable us to helplessly gaze at many more sunsets to come.

Every year, when the end of October emerges, wicked is wholesome, gory is standard, slutty is sweet, and dead is alive. As these words take on new meanings and traits, so do we.

Halloween is a time for costumes, candy, tricks, and treats – when homey neighborhoods become bustling ghost towns of familiar faces we sometimes can’t recognize. But even more so, the holiday is an opportunity for us to trade in our regular selves for another facade that we become for the night. When the time comes to start planning for Halloween, an initial question we ponder is what to be. Countless hours and dollars are spent in preparation, and then suddenly, it’s October 31^st: Sun down, jack-o-lanterns lit, candy bought, masks on. Let the frightening festivities begin.

The haunting beauty of Halloween lies in the occasion’s visual significance – in our made-up, done-up appearances. For that night and the wee hours of the morning that follow, we transform into something out of the ordinary – and *poof* reality fades into the darkness. When we show up to bars and parties dressed up (or down), there is no need to explain or justify our looks, because all who participate have a hall-pass to be whatever they want to be; on this night, it seems that everyone comes out as something they aren’t.

From this perspective, Halloween is liberating. Beneath the Hollywood blood and sacks of rainbow candy, a peculiar opportunity lies that we all seize, knowingly or even unknowingly, when we dress up. This night in particular offers a space for freedom, an alternate world that we craft, run, and temporarily escape into, enabling us to be whatever we want to be.

So, with that, on Halloween, who are we? It seems that the truth behind this question is the most chilling aspect of the occasion: how we willingly express ourselves visually is telling of the people we are beneath the masks and under the makeup. Perhaps we delve into the realm that we need to escape into, to shamelessly become one with our authentic selves that we might normally conceal. And at other times, we become the complete opposite of our regular selves, to seek release from our ordinary personas. Life is cyclical, and so is Halloween each year – but our experiences (and our escapes) on this occasion are subjectively distinctive.

Wicked, gory, and slutty alike, our decided appearances ultimately stem from within us, from our underlying, uniquely personal intentions and points of view. And whether our personas for the night are bizarrely mystical and outlandish, or rooted in reality, the choice is ours. Perhaps, therefore, Halloween is not just an eerily festive memorial of the dead, but also a celebration of being alive, and having the power to decide who we are (or aren’t) in this life.

As I took my seat at an open table to partake in my weekly Sunday brunch ritual, the latest issue of The New Yorker stared at me – more like winked at me. It sat there on the light tan, wooden table that has been very kind and conducive to my past food photos, acting as a sort of canvas or frame for my subjects. But today, the table framed a thought that I had, an epiphany, if you will, that I never thought something as simple as brunch would spark to mind.

Ever since I moved into my apartment in the West Village, The Elk has been my kitchen and my office. Some might see it as that cute little coffee shop and restaurant on Charles Street, but to me, The Elk is a deliciously charming comfort zone that I’ve childishly claimed. And while I make a visit to my sanctuary of almond milk, avocado toast, and egg-white omelets every day, this particular Sunday was different. Mixed in amongst an arrangement of flowers, a jumbled assortment of colors and textures, those three words jolted me a bit: “The New Yorker.” How could the name of a magazine challenge my mind so intensely? And more importantly, how could a state, a city, or a place, define someone? The New Yorker, whether it be the little boy on the cover or the sharp business woman sitting on the table to my right, is defined by New York City. He or she is not merely a participant, visitor, or resident of this place – but a product of it.

And that’s when I had this sudden realization – mid-bite, mid-sip: I am from California. And as hard as I try and as much as I think I am a New Yorker, or at least a West Villager, I am an Angeleno at heart. As much as I love quaint coffee shops and seasonal changes – palm trees, the beach, the sun, and everything “California” run through my blood. I’ve always thought of “the New Yorker” as a role that I adopt, that all people initially foreign to this place take on. LA is home, and ultimately, LA is on the other side of the country from where I am right now, seemingly in a world of its own. But what does “home” mean? Is it where you’re from, or where you live, or just where you feel most comfortable? Can one have more than one of these things called “home”? And I don’t mean more than one house; I mean more than one home.

Each day, whether for my morning latte or weekend brunch, I walk down Washington Street and up Charles Street to the Elk. I pet the canine members of the community as they restlessly sit outside on the sidewalk. I greet whomever the barista is behind the counter, welcoming me with a smile and a friendly “hello,” and of course, Claire, the owner and heart of the Elk, (and its root, if you like a good pun). I actively participate in this life and have made it my home. I’ve gotten to know the people, the scenery, the smells, the tastes, the sights, and the moods that pulse through the veins of this neck of the woods.

I have made this city and this place my home. I guess “home” isn’t necessarily where you come from; that’s your origin. Home is what you make it and where you build it. I guess being a “New Yorker” is more of a state of mind that you cultivate rather than a form of identification based solely on geography.  I may not have been born here or into this community from the get-go, but I’ve joined it and have become a part of it over time. And I’ve learned that, sometimes, for starters, to make that happen, all it takes is an initiative, an openness to change, a warm “hello” and a large cup of coffee (with almond milk, of course).

The Elk – 128 Charles St, New York, NY 10014