Favorite View

You can tell everything you truly know about a person from the view from their window 

For me, that view was and is everything, every bad day, every tear, the widow was the constant. The one thing I could count on at the end of the day to tell me where I was. Who I was. I can feel every emotion I ever felt just by seeing a similar tree. Or a building laced in red bricks. Every view represents a different version of me. Someone that, with every move, would hopefully be gone. I was always wishing for a different view. A different old building, a different path. From mountains in Israel to the cobblestone streets of central London. From million dollar penthouses, to a thick grassy backyard. 

When I think of happiness, I, a jewish rochesterian named Izzi, if that matters, think of the view in my London flat. I had just graduated high school in Rochester, NY, and was living in London to study at NYU for a year. It was the oust outlandish thing you could do. No one left and went abroad. No one left the bubble that was Western New York, a town of blondes in juicy couture, and jewish gays in the glee club. But that’s a different view to discuss. Needless to say, the view in London was unbelievable. Situated on a corner lot of a park in Bloomsbury, five minutes to the tube, ten minutes to Russell Square and the British Museum. It was the middle of everything. The summer before moving to London I had gotten fired at my childhood summer camp for drinking. Not the most important part of this story, but important to know. I was fragile. I was angry. And I was ready to change everything. I arrived a few weeks earlier than the other students as I had gotten a job working in the student office. All of the other early birds were RA’s and juniors on work study. I was young, terrified, and eager to be almost an adult. I was fresh off a breakup with my high school love, and I was finally able to be myself without the judgement of the town. Rochester was only so big, after all. On the day of my arrival, my mom dropped me off at the Toronto airport and I left with two suitcases and my guitar. I arrived in at Heathrow planning to take the public transportation. But by then, I was overwhelmed, anxious, and trying to hold in my panic attack for as long as possible, so I grabbed a cab. It was the best and worst 58 minutes of my life. Wrong side of the street. Harry Potter house? No, wait that one! Where are the seatbelts? Do I have cell service? What if I have the wrong address? What is the code to the house? Did I make the right decision?

I arrived on Gilford Street to a tall white brownstone building. There was a round circle outside the door to note that this was a historical building. I go inside, find a person to talk to, and finally end up in my very small room. Single bed. Closet trunk thing, and one desk. I collapse onto the bed and drop my bags onto the floor. For the first time in 13 hours, it was quiet. I was done. I made it. 

I laid down on the bed and closed my eyes. My heart beating faster than a sprinter. My throat swelled three times the size, just holding in tears. I did it. I was here. I am here. I am okay. I repeated to myself until finally my heart slowed. In two, three, four, hold two three four five, let go, one two three four five six seven eight. 4, 7 ,8, in hold out. My throat opened up. The room stopped spinning. I am here. I am okay. 

I can’t remember too much of what I did next, besides I met up with the group, showered, unpacked, and called my mom. Those first few weeks we were living in temporary dorms until the rest of the students came. During those few weeks, I met Matias, one of only relevant people from my London experience. I like to reflect on how long a person has been in my life because it correlates to time. So eventually I will give up the notion that people always leave. An anniversary of my personality, I guess. 

Matias was my first RA. He was from Buenos Aires, tall dark and handsome, and unfortunately, unavailable. I thirsted after him so hard that first semester. A unspeakable love, so to speak. But according to him, I was just a student therefore he wasn’t allowed to hook up with me. But that story is less fun.  He’s now a hotshot doctor, but at the time, he was the first of few people that have stayed with me over the years. Others lost to breakups or moves, Matias has always been a constant. Every time we talk, it’s like no time has passed. 

Those first few weeks in London we started going to this bar called Be At One. I had found it on Yelp and brought the other RA’s there the first week. It was classy, near Kings Cross, and oh, had 2 for 1 cocktails for students every night. The best part. We were broke, horny, and American, in a place I had idolized for so long as the city from Parent Trap and Peter Pan. The bar was dark, few seats, red leather lined with the building shaped like a triangle at an intersection of two roads. It had a glass stairwell that was like descending Everest wearing 5 inch heels after 5 drinks. But if you made it down, boy, was it worth it. The bathroom was black and white, chic, yet snug. And it had the best selfie mirror in the world. OR at least, that’s what it felt like when you are that drunk and over confident. It’s been a long time since I have revisited those memories and I don’t plan on visualizing it more than I already have. 

But in those first few weeks, I learned more about myself than I ever had in my entire life. I got to be someone that no one knew. No rumors. No misconceptions. No lies or trauma. I was able to start fresh and be the person I always wanted to be. I was able to be Isabel. 

Izzi was careless, arrogant, aggressive, loud, self conscious, crude, and naive. I thought I was so grown up at 14. Thought I was in charge at 17. But 2014, at 18 years old, I felt like I might finally be able to reinvent myself. To be who I truly wanted to be. Or thought I was. It was that view in London, that view from Be at One, the view of those memories now, that defined the person I was going to become as Isabel. Who I was determined to be.