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Once upon a time, I lived in New York.

It’s fitting to write about it as if it were a fairytale, because it’s as implausible as wearing glass slippers and marrying a prince. To this day it seems an impossibility that I, on a freelance writer’s budget, and with no permanent address, could somehow move to and live in New York. It’s even more implausible that a person of my limited means and station in life could live well in New York.

But live well, I did, at least in my eyes.

That was 15 years ago.

I’d long dreamed of living in New York, since I was a little girl growing up in the small town of Brandon, Minnesota. Family friends and neighbors, Audrey and her daughter Dharma, had previously lived in New York, and went back to visit family from time to time. During one such trip I was tasked with starting a fire in their wood stove every day and sweeping up the ashes, making me the proverbial Cinderella while they were having a ball, if not attending one. Upon their return, Audrey gifted me a hardcover book with glossy full-bleed photos of New York. A spell was cast upon me.

So maybe that’s where it began, this pervasive thought that I must live in New York. I wanted to see how people did it. How did you buy groceries in the city? How did you get your laundry done? How did you afford rent? I wanted to be immersed in it, to understand it fully. Pop culture further cultivated this germination of an idea. Every year, we’d watch Dick Clark’s New Years Rockin’ Eve and the ball drop in Times Square. I dreamed of seeing it in person, someday. The crowds. The countdown. The confetti. I imagined myself working as a writer, living in a tiny studio apartment alone, paying exorbitant rent, somehow making it work. My friend CindyLooWho had a brother who’d lived there, he told me he had found a cheap apartment in Chinatown above an illegal gambling hall. That’s how he made it work. It gave me hope that maybe there was a way to afford it, but it still seemed incredibly out of reach.

Life happened. My husband and I bought a house in the Midwest, became locals in the charming city of La Crosse, Wisconsin. A decade passed, and we were well into another decade. And a part of me gave up that dream. And then life fell apart, as life sometimes does. The Mr. and I separated. I left my communications job to work with an international homestay organization in San Francisco, and upon arrival, realized the situation wasn’t going to work for me. My parents invited me to stay with them in Tucson, Arizona, to rest and figure things out, which I did for several months. But then the snowbird season was ending, and they were soon heading back Brainerd, Minnesota, and I knew I didn’t want to move back there. So I was freelance writing and dreaming of my next big move, and I realized…I could just go. I could simply choose to move to New York City.

And so, I did.

It was May of 2009, and I was 36 years old. I first sublet a room in Bedford-Stuyvesant in Brooklyn, otherwise known as Bed-Stuy, with a window fire escape overlooking a grassy lot. I’d sit out there and listen to gospel music rising from the churches, or silently cheer on the amorous couple next door who generously left their window open to remind me of the pleasures I was missing out on.

There was a great coffee shop across the street where I’d hang out and read or write. The neighborhood wasn’t as wealthy as others in New York, and that had its upsides. I’d buy gorgeous, bulk produce for cheap from a greengrocer down the block. ATMs had only a dollar fee, the bodegas sold single cigarettes and rolls of toilet paper. When I requested red wine at the liquor store, the clerk behind the plexiglass asked, “Which one do you want? The five dollar bottle, or the seven dollar bottle?” I treated myself to the latter.

My flatmates and I were all subletters: a fashion student, another Midwesterner, and a Croatian woman named Antonia who had attended school in Beloit, Wisconsin. After dark we would walk to a short order restaurant down the street and get decadent fried golden-brown things listed on the glowing signs. Occasionally, I’d get a $2 slice from the pizza joint nearby. I even found a restaurant in the area with a celebrated vegan tuna sandwich, which I sought out and found a bit too real.

More permanent residents knew us “snow bunnies” by name, and would invite us to join them as they sat on the stoop, or at their barbecues in the park. In a neighborhood where people tended to glance over their shoulders, it always seemed that people had our backs. I remember a shopkeeper commenting that they loved the neighborhood because of all of its diversity. I’m sure I looked confused. As someone who had grown up in primarily caucasian northern Minnesota, it hadn’t ever occurred to me there was diversity within black communities. But of course. Only then did I begin to notice the many different nationalities represented in Bed-Stuy. By moving to New York, the poverty of my lack of exposure to other cultures slowly gave way to a much richer understanding of the world beyond the Upper Midwest.

I only had the room in Bedford-Stuyvesant for a month or so. But my 37th birthday fell during that time, and the fashion student took pity on for me being alone on my birthday (though honestly, I rather like being alone) and took me out to celebrate. We went to a bar. I remember it was awkward and not very fun. I might have been better off in my jammies with a $7 bottle of wine, sitting on my fire escape and listening to the neighbors pant and squeal. I was still finding my way.

Walking was my bliss, as it always has been, and I walked every street in New York that I could, by joy and often necessity. I burned blood blisters into both of my feet within days. Not long after, I wore entirely through the soles of my shoes, which I had never done before. I wore through several pairs of shoes during my time in New York, and not one since I left.

I’d take the trains into Manhattan and other parts of Brooklyn frequently. One day I came across a neighborhood in Brooklyn that felt immediately like home: Cobble Hill. I fell in love with the charming restaurants, coffee shops and walkable streets of the neighborhood while eating a cheese crepe at a French bistro as I watched the Brooklyn world speed by. I secured my next accommodation there, on Sackett Avenue, where I sublet from a woman who was going abroad for the summer.

My flatmate was a Dutch guitar player for The Weepies and Harper Blynn named Whynot Jansveld. He was easy going, fun to live with, and frankly I rarely saw him.

One night while I was working at the apartment, news broke about the death of Michael Jackson. The next day, I paused at the Madame Tussauds wax museum display of Michael on 42nd Street in Manhattan, gathering with the other stunned fans.

When the Apollo Theater held a celebration of Michael Jackson’s life, I rode the subway to Harlem to honor my childhood infatuation. I waited in line in the heat and direct sun for hours, in the midst of a parade of impersonators, performers and aggrieved fans, most of us squished behind bike rack to keep us in line.

The crowd was allowed to cycle through the theater every half hour or so. I got inside at the perfect moment, when Reverend Al Sharpton and Spike Lee spoke. The Apollo vibrated with joy and celebration and heartbreak and music. The guy next to me in line, who said he worked for Bloomberg, wanted me to go with him to a fried chicken place he loved down the road. But my carriage (the F train) was about to turn back into a pumpkin, so back to my sublet I fled.

I stayed in contact with Antonia from the Bed-Stuy apartment. She visited me during my first official night in Cobble Hill, and I think she liked the neighborhood so much she decided to move to that area as well, securing a place in neighboring Carroll Gardens. Her mom came to visit from Croatia, so we got to spend some time together, and eventually I visited and stayed with Antonia’s family in Croatia. New York continually makes the world a smaller and friendlier place.

I also had more visitors when I lived in New York than at any other time in my life: several from Europe, the Midwest and elsewhere who joined me in my humble and ever-changing sublets, a sampler platter of the best and dodgiest neighborhoods.

My mother and aunt, my sister and my brother all came on separate occasions. And I got to show them with deep pride, my city, my home.

Then it all came full circle, when Audrey and Dharma came to Staten Island, and I met up with them; the very people who had lit the New York fire within me.

I had to manage my budget carefully, so I sought out affordable treats: the one-dollar slice on 8th Avenue, the spring rolls and noodles in Chinatown, and the gorgeous produce stands on every corner.

I drank black coffee and took in a show of humanity regularly at the old D’Amico coffee shop on Court Street in Cobble Hill. They roasted beans on the premises and I can still smell them as if I’m there at a cafe table listening to the Italian family bickering in the background. The shop was rebuilt after a devastating fire in 2012, so at least some of the original charm I relished is relegated to the history books. These days when I’m feeling flush, I treat myself to a bag of Cobble Hill blend beans shipped direct from my favorite coffee shop in the world; it takes me right back there.

Occasionally I’d get an affordable mani/pedi on 7th Street in Park Slope where the Romanian aestheticians showed no mercy to my stubborn callouses and cuticles. Other times I’d treat myself to a real New York bagel with vegan cream cheese; that tender crunch and resistant pull of the dough, unforgettable. I frequented the free offerings in the city: gallery openings, farmers markets, CD release parties, and live music performances at the morning news shows, among them Dave Matthews Band and Rascal Flatts. I won tickets to the Late Show with David Letterman, which my brother and I attended together. It was surreal and so very fun.

Of course I went to the fantastic museums; many of them have days where entry is free or donation-based. I’d often sit on the glass bleachers in Times Square and watch the meditative swarm of humanity; it was the best show on Broadway, and it hypnotized me like a burning campfire. Then I’d walk to Park Ave and 50th, where I could score what I considered to be the best falafel in the city. The worker would eye me suggestively while squirting the plate with white sauce which was weird but so very New York. I’d watch the ice skaters at Rockefeller Center, walk 5th avenue and take in the holiday window displays. I’d walk the Brooklyn Bridge again and again, sometimes descending to DUMBO and witnessing the sunset behind the Manhattan Skyline from Brooklyn Bridge Park.

I’d take in the free music recitals at Columbia University. I’d hop the train on weekends and go to Far Rockaway and Coney Island where I’d stroll the boardwalk, plant my feet in the sand, and marvel at that deep blue water.

I’d go to the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens during their free window, the magnolia trees in full bloom and the cherry blossoms raining down, such magic and beauty unmatched since. And of course I’d walk in Central Park. I got to see its splendor in every season of the year, each season spectacular in its own way.

And then every once in a while I’d splurge. Brunch alone at Pastis, where the host sent over a free glass of champagne, followed by a casual stroll on The High Line park. Broadway and off-broadway shows; Momma Mia, Stomp, American Idiot. South Pacific at the Lincoln Center Theater with my Mom and Aunt and a double-decker bus tour. A nosebleed seat at a Knicks game, mainly so I could get inside Madison Square Garden, just to see it. Yankees games.

Dinners out, frequently vegan restaurants which had been so hard to find in the Midwest. Grocery shopping at Chelsea Market. Sidewalk cafe noshing at Les Halles on Park Avenue, or wine by the glass at the bar. I bought myself a necklace at Tiffany’s on 5th Avenue, the classic “Return to Tiffany” heart toggle. I feasted on caper-studded seitan piccata and creamy mashed potatoes at Candle 79, a dish I still dream about and now make at home. I’d take the elevator to the top of the Marriott Marquis just off Times Square and sit amidst the towering skyscrapers while sipping a cocktail. I sought out the best vegan cupcakes in the city, they were piled with colorful pastel frosting and topped with sprinkles. I enjoyed a swank vegan Thanksgiving feast at a candlelit table for one, after getting jostled in the crowd at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Twice I took myself to the famous Tavern on the Green, first for lunch, and then a luxurious buffet brunch, it was the closest I got to the glamour of a palace ball. Afterward a pedicab driver enticed me for a ride in the park, and I thought why not? It was a lovely once in a lifetime experience and an essential part of my New York fairytale. He asked me out to a party afterwards, and I declined. I had no glass slippers, and he was no prince. My true love was, and always will be New York.

Perhaps it was a gift from my fairy godmother: I did get my slippers. Among those who live in the brownstones, it’s customary to leave items you’re ready to give away on the steps so passersby can help themselves to the treasures. In my wanderings one day I came upon a stoop bearing a new pair of Kate Spade slides, chocolate brown, waiting for their princess. They were the perfect size and style. Glass footwear might be fine for a folktale, but well-made shoes are absolutely essential for would-be royalty walking city streets.

Finally I got to watch the ball drop in Times Square, in person, at last. I was there with a few friends and a million strangers, 12 or 14 blocks back from the center of the action.

“This is why I never have lifelong dreams,” said a particularly surly friend. In her defense it was rainy, cold and for most of my companions, miserable.

But for me the moment was magical, and as the countdown began I thought my head and heart might explode with happiness, but it just burst through my eyes instead, rivers of rain and joy mingling on my cheeks.

Of course, every fairytale has its dark side. Though I was constantly surrounded by people, I would often go days without having a conversation with someone who wasn’t paid to talk to me. On occasion I’d have an impulse to grab someone by the shoulders and beg them to talk with me. I remember having less than $100 to my name at one point, a scary small amount in the city. There were times when my sublease was up in a few days and I hadn’t yet secured a place to stay. I put up with cockroach-ridden apartments, wicked witch roommates, noisy, smelly neighbors and dodgy streets. The F train was a menace, constantly erratic and infrequent on nights and weekends. I carried laundry and groceries up fifth-floor walkups, and shlepped my scant personal belongings from neighborhood to neighborhood as I moved between sublets. On one particularly dark day, I remember devouring nearly a whole pizza and six pack alone in my tiny sublet room while in the depths of it all. Self-medication, New York style. The next day I dusted the pizza crumbs off myself and tried to do better. Again, New York style.

But New York is nothing if not a city of hope. For generations people have moved there, drawn to the promise of something better, a fresh start, something more, or just the opportunity to be a part of a city so grand. In the time I spent there the New York City anthem Empire State of Mind topped the music charts. Walking home to my sublet in Midtown one night, I passed a homeless woman, obscured in the shadows of a doorway. Her radio broadcast a haunting acapella cover of the song while she sang along.

“In New York/Concrete jungle where dreams are made of/There’s nothin’ you can’t do/Now you’re in New York.”

She and I were not so different. Even in our darkest moments, the city of New York gave us hope.

I sublet a room with a fire escape view of the Manhattan skyline in one direction and Prospect Park in the other, in what was then the most desirable neighborhood in New York, Park Slope. It was then I got the news my biggest client was planning to hire a full-time writer for the work I was doing. When they offered me the job, I sat on the fire escape looking over New York and Brooklyn, and wept pitifully. I knew my fairytale was coming to an end, and I didn’t want it to be over. It had been everything I’d dreamed of, and so much more. Shortly afterward, I returned to the Upper Midwest and re-entered the corporate world.

Oh, and I found my prince, or rather, re-found him.

I’ve gone back to New York several times in the years since then. Once with the Mr., with whom things fell back together again, a time or two with friends and of course alone. The visits are always too brief, and it’s just never the same as it was during the time I lived there.

But that doesn’t change the fact that somehow, once upon a time, I lived in New York. And it was like a fairytale in so many ways. It was the lifelong dream of a poor little girl from northern Minnesota, and one which against all odds came true.

It’s safe to assume I left no permanent mark in New York. I never signed a lease. I made few friends, though Antonia and I are still connected on LinkedIn, we haven’t spoken in years. I never had so much as a library card when I was there. I was, by technical definition, homeless during that time with no permanent address, and therefore I was never even counted in the 2010 census. I was essentially a phantom, invisible and irrelevant, a broken woman with a threadbare heart in the shadows of a doorway, singing a song of hope. A psychic once told me she saw me wandering the streets of New York in a past life that didn’t end well, that I had unfinished business there. Maybe my soul will always wander those streets, or long for them when it cannot.

To be honest, the city’s disinterest was exactly what I needed when I moved there. Living among people too otherwise occupied to meddle in your life, opine or gossip about you is an absolute luxury when you’re struggling to catch your breath in the face of life’s changes. But in a sense my fairytale romance was a story of unrequited love. For however deep my affections are for her, New York is indifferent toward me. Before and since my time there I’ve applied for hundreds of jobs in in the city, sent articles for possible publication, and queries for books, and I’ve never received a single response. Not one. Maybe my time there was just meant to be a chapter of my story, a layover as I found my footing, even if it was on ambivalent pavement.

Oh, but I did love her, that grandest of cities, and I swear I will love her forever. I love her for her grit, for the people who make it work. I love her in all the ways for all the reasons, from the intrepid subway rats to the glitz; from the roach-ridden apartments to the buildings with chandeliers and a doorman; from the quiet corners of the parks and the international stroller mafia of the boroughs to the drunken woman on the street who touched the deep crevice between my eyes and said, “NEVER get this removed. It’s character!” I love New York for her overpriced storefronts on 5th Avenue, her cheap kitsch of Times Square, and her thrift shops on the Upper East Side. I love her for the subway and the cabbies and the pedi-cabs and the horse-drawn carriages. I love her for the dirty water dogs, the slices, the sidewalk cafes, and the prix fixe menus with wine pairing. I love her for the long lines and the last minute discounts, for the free shows and for those magnificent, incomparable magnolia trees in spring. I love her for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, which I watch every year, too seldom in person and all too often from my couch. I love, love, love her for the New Year’s Eve ball drop. And I love her for the indefatigable seekers from the cinders like me, who walk right through the soles of their shoes to experience as much of the limitless city as they can, who will never tire of it, never stop singing her song of hope, and never stop loving her, even if she pays them no mind at all.

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