Rituals of a new life

When I first moved to New York in December 2023, I could not deal with how cold the weather was.  I knew that winter meant suffering. Like many South Africans, I’ve been worshiping at the altar of the gas heater for every June I’ve been alive. I’ve taken many hot water bottles to bed and woken up in the middle of the night from a nightmare about fire because I accidentally left the electric blanket on the 3 setting. But our annual 10 weeks of teeth chattering cold are nothing compared to the length and the white rage of the North American winter when it arrives.  

I arrived here without the correct clothing and admittedly, without the right attitude. I moved here to be with my husband, who I met in New York when I was here for work. Things happened very quickly and before I knew it, I was an immigrant. An alien in a place that doesn’t stop feeling like the set of a movie you’ve seen. 

So I grumbled through daily tasks that involved going outside because of the thermals, gloves, hats and jackets that needed to accompany me to take out the rubbish. Or to get some tomatoes or a bottle of milk from the bodega (corner shop). I grumbled through the serious noise of 5th avenue traffic, ambulances and fire engine sirens I would have to get through to get a cup of coffee down the street. I grumbled through the cost of everything, stuck in the futile exercise of converting things to rand. And grumbled through the feeling of being a sardine in a sea of millions of people I did not know and could not recognise. Always looking for faces I know on the subway, on the street and never seeing them, nursing a new form of ironic loneliness.

But as the season thickened, so did my wardrobe, which grew to include snow boots (so ugly, but so practical), a penchant for anything from the heattech range at Uniqlo, puffer jackets, vintage leather coats, sheepskin hats and Italian wool scarves.  And as my wardrobe changed, so did my attitude. And as my attitude changed, so did my resistance. 

Soon a can of Americanisms began to open in my vocabulary. “You’re all set”; “Can I have a “hot tea”? (as if serving tea cold is the normal thing); “No, still working thank you,” when a server tries to take my plate before I’m done eating; “Yes, I’m available on December 9.” Since when do I say the month first?

As the winter thawed into Spring, which I have recently discovered is my favourite season next to “fall” or Autumn), I began to notice the same people around my neighbourhood for the first time. Like Mrs B, an 84-year old black woman with a chiskop, who is always wearing red lipstick and a good pair of earrings. She tends to her plants, which are on the street-facing the side of her brownstone and greets everyone who walks past, asking after our spouses, our holiday plans and always letting us know which house is for sale in the neighborhood, which she has lived in for 50 years. She called me over the other day to apologise to me. “I’m so sorry that you and your party had to see me in my robe on the street”. 

There’s the neighbourhood busybody. A squirrel-like white man who wears crocs no matter what and sits on a swiveling office chair on the pavement swiveling to and fro. He is always on his oversized phone but pauses whatever conversation he is having to say hello or to talk about some national event. “Say, did you hear that Tina Turner died?” I hadn’t actually. 

I remember how scared I was to use the self checkout machine when I first got here. Now it’s the only way I pay. And how scared I was of driving. I’m proud to say I recently got my first parking ticket. And how nervous I was to leave the house without a charger in case my phone dies and I can’t get back home on the train alone. I now have a favourite subway station and know that if I get lost, there are many New Yorkers who will help me, though I’m the one that gets stopped and asked for directions and I usually know how to direct people. I know what makes sense to buy at Whole Foods (kind of like Woolies but Woolies rules the universe) versus Trader Joes (Spar meets Checkers) versus Costco (the Makro) 

And when winter took too long to come around this year, I missed it. I missed the mittens and the down feather jackets. I got tired of the warmth and learnt to appreciate the beauty of how seasons organise time here, and our lives. We went to the Christmas Tree  lot in New Jersey to collect our Christmas tree, just like we did last year. And as per this new tradition, we will also go to the Japanese grocery store to pick up strange foods we probably don’t need, but which have become part of the new rituals of my new life.