There are few things harder to understand as a kid than having to uproot and move. Getting familiar with a new town, fitting in at a new school, making new friends – these things are hard enough when you’re an adult in control of the situation. As a kid who doesn’t quite yet understand how the world works, it erases nearly everything you knew and forces you to start over.
Ten years ago, I couldn’t find any words. I’ve found a few for today.
Here’s what I remember of that day during my senior year of college: I remember our house being firmly wrapped up in the third day of party drama fallout, which quickly fell to the side. I remember waking up to ten breaking news alerts from CNN in my inbox and only being able to think “This isn’t good”. I remember ringing the doorbell to the house repeatedly after I had turned on the news in an attempt to wake everyone up. And I remember contact the Freeverse office to make sure everyone was okay.
The timing of the day – not long after I had turned 21, not long before I would graduate and get married – makes it a pretty natural chapter break between college and adulthood.
I suppose the thing that strikes me now is that I’ve had the chance to spent eight years in the city that was born out of that tragedy. It’s hard for me to fathom the ways that the city has changed before and after September 11th. I will only ever know the after, as will many of my friends who moved here long after the towers fell. This doesn’t bother me – it’s not some sort of badge or achievement I long for.
This New York is where I found myself, made my career, built up an incredible circle of friends and peers, and launched adventures I couldn’t have dreamed of while I was toiling away in college.
This New York is my New York. And I love it completely.
On Saturday night, I stepped into the McKittrick hotel with five friends. Three hours later, I found myself back on the sidewalk of 27th Street, catching my breath, my heart still racing, my mind still spinning.
If you keep an ear to what’s going on around NYC, then you may already know that the McKittrick is home to Punchdrunk’s “immersive theatre” experience, Sleep No More. Audiences are invited to don a mask and explore 100,000 square feet of a recreated abandoned hotel, while a cast of twenty-three actors stride from room to room and silently act out Macbeth by way of Hitchcock. Some audience members choose to follow one or two characters and see what happens; others opt to explore on their own, rifling through drawers and cabinets and suitcases. The choices are up to each attendee.
Much has been written about the experience, and I am loathe to rehash. You might want to heard the observations on the inherent voyeurism from Ben Brantley at the Times, or Michael Abbott’s lovely argument as to why anyone who calls themselves a gamer needs to go see it. You may be interested in the amazing set and prop design, which would lead you to this NYT slideshow. And there are plenty of other impressions around the web, almost all positive.
My normal way to talk about these sorts of experiences is to meticulously walk my way through everything that happened, trying to gather all the details so they form a single authoritative post. I am going to skip on that method for Sleep No More. I may have caught multiple scenes, I may have followed most every character at least once, I may have dug through a lot of drawers – and I may have even found an easter egg or two. But that experience was mine, and when you go, you will have your own – and it will be different, and unique, and yours. I do not want to taint that or come across as recommending a course of action.
But I will share one story from last night, after the jump. (This might constitute a spoiler, so if you’re looking to go in blind, stop reading here.)