Times Square is deserted. No cars, only a few curious people walking up Broadway. Only essential workers are technically allowed on the subway these days. My children are home from school indefinitely. These are the days of the Novel Corona Virus, otherwise known as Covid-19. And this is my daily story of Manhattan life here on the Upper East Side.

I’m not a New Yorker. Not yet, not really. I’ve been told you need to live here 10 years before you can call yourself that. And I get it. New York isn’t the easiest place in the world to live. There is a lot of noise and congestion, a lot of honking, a LOT of trash. It’s fast-paced, and it's expensive as all-get-out. People come here from all over the world trying to make a new life. Many leave after a few short years. So it goes to say you must put in your dues before you get to officially belong. And it makes sense. They want you to earn it. Being a New Yorker isn’t a title to be taken lightly. It’s a hard-earned title that should be just that—earned. Earned by years of enterprise and effort, patience and fortitude—acting fast, and thinking faster. If you pause too long to catch your breath here you could quite literally get swept away in the crush of humanity rushing past you on their way to work. You have to be on your game here, always. And you have to learn to walk fast.

We moved to New York city from the west coast just before July 4th, 2019, so we’d only been here 8 months before COVID-19 first struck. New jobs, new schools, making new friends —relocating is hard no matter where you go. Add in a global pandemic in the largest city in America, and the move takes on a whole new level of adjustment.

Living in the Upper East Side, in our now half-empty prewar building (many having fled the city for family and second homes in Long Island, NJ and Connecticut) we have workstations set-up at the dining room table. We’ve finally caved and bought extra toilet paper and Clorox wipes and have hunkered down to ride out this storm. The kids are learning via laptops in their small bedrooms. We are learning which local restaurants and deli’s are the best, because the mediocre ones seemed to have all closed their doors temporarily, unable to sustain themselves without the foot traffic. Only the tried and true institutions like Neils and Polls, Tal Bagel and the Pastrami Queen have stayed, relying on their reputations and delivery service to feed the neighborhood. We’ve never eaten so well.

So many things here are changing so fast now: increasing death tolls, the USNS Comfort sailing into New York Harbor yesterday to take care of us, federal support coming in. The country is turning its eyes to New York in concern. It’s frightening, but it’s all very heartwarming at the same time. Nothing unites us like tragedy, after all.

The other day on 3rd Ave, a women’s bag ripped open and her groceries spilled out onto the sidewalk. Two people rushed to help her—still keeping a respectful social distance—and one offered a new bag. It made me proud to be a New Yorker. But wait…I’m not a New Yorker. Not yet. I still have 9 years and 4 months to go before I earn that title. Or do I? I’ll have to check, but I think that maybe, if you stick with New York through a global pandemic, you can skip the line.

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