Electric City: Hot Wheels, Summer in the City

When I think about the summer, I think about New York. It's a peculiar thing, as I have only spent two of my twenty-four summers in the city. I should just as much think of Myrtle Beach or my family's small, sweltering ranch house in rural Pennsylvania come June and July, but I don't. I may remember our above-ground swimming pool with its hand-me-down deck, but I have memories of humid evenings spent alone in Washington Square Park.

Circling the fountain, I try to find a place where few people sit yet where the breeze occasionally blows a refreshing mist across my face and arms. I need to be as close as possible, but my foot plates bump against the two-foot-high edge. This is close enough; it has to be. I'm not terribly bothered by the fact that I can't dip my feet in the water. I like to keep my shoes on anyway. I'm here to observe. Sometimes I watch two lovers read silently side-by-side and wonder if they will discuss their texts over a lemon ice later that night; or a toddler in his swimming trunks innocently teasing a yellow lab that just wants to stay cool. I think how much I'd likely bite that child if he kept dumping plastic cups full of water on my head. Then sometimes a group of New Mexican tourists attract my attention -- student musicians and their teachers -- and we discuss music and sight-seeing and how Rent is too risque for impressionable youth. I disagree, but they're Mormons, so I smile and nod and wave goodbye when they retire to their hotel at 7:30 p.m. Still other times I just close my eyes and listen to the muffled sounds of downtown -- the traffiic three blocks over or a guitarist on the east side of the park; the argument two black men are having about who sells cheaper seed-bead necklaces or the wheels of a closed hotdog cart rolling toward the arch. Every now and then I am interrupted by the fountain's spray. This seemingly idealized scene, to me, is summer. I even enjoy the salty garbage smell of August.

I felt a connection to the city from the first time I vacationed there for my sixteenth birthday, because I had found a place where I could combine my emotional independence with physical independence. No more being lifted in and out of my van; I could take a bus, or, better yet, "walk" wherever I needed to go. I awaited the day when I could live in the city permanently, and while I'm still working to secure myself a life and an apartment, I am fortunate to have spent two summers living in my home.

Next month, Dobler -- my boyfriend -- and I will be venturing into the city to apartment hunt. We've spent the last three months scouring Craigslist, and soon it looks like we're going to have to hire a broker. I know, I know. I'm not thrilled about it either, but we have specific requirements that need to be met, and the odds of us finding a cheap, wheelchair-accessible, Manhattan apartment near transportation are very low. We have one day to view places and limited resources, and now we have to further stretch those funds in order to pay an agent. It's worth it, though, to see New York in the fall.