M̾u̾s̾h̾r̾o̾o̾m̾s̾ ̾i̾n̾ ̾M̾a̾n̾h̾a̾t̾t̾a̾n̾:̾ ̾A̾ ̾G̾u̾i̾d̾e̾ 🍄
Andrea Nayeli
To acquire magic mushrooms in Manhattan, go to any bodega on the Lower East Side. If you’re a little lucky and look nothing like a cop, you’ll likely strike gold in a New York minute. Pass the glass cases full of gummy candies and painted pipes to reach the back, where you’ll be met with options, illegal chocolates, each one sweeter than the next. Expect to pay a pretty penny or bring a friend to split a bar with. Estimate your desired dose using two finger widths to count a gram, or simply say a little prayer and hope for the best.
Do not, under any circumstances, go where the day takes you, no matter how the sidewalk softens on your way. Otherwise, you might find yourself at the Whitney on a Saturday, where you’ll see very little art, chasing struggling hallucinations through swarming crowds and sobering up by the second. To save the trip, you’ll need to escape via stairwell — the white one facing west with crystal-esque views of the Atlantic. At the top, you’ll find a restaurant with a wait list moving faster than any line downstairs. Put your name down and venture onto the adjacent balcony for a bitter breath of fresh air while you wait, smells of mozzarella and marinara wafting by to warm your spirits. Thirty minutes later, your table is ready, but the kitchen’s out of flatbread. Order the fried chicken instead. Eat the whole thing and wonder where that came from, then realize you must be tripping after all.
Worse than the Whitney is walking aimlessly through winter while you trip. Without a destination in mind, you might just end up seeking refuge in a Christmas Village, outdoors. You’ll have a better idea of what that entails once you’ve gleefully dropped hundreds of dollars on artisan-made stocking stuffers that will never fit in your suitcase. How you’ll transport these items home is beside the point, at least for now anyway. What you really want to know is how the Chrysler building stays so sparkly, where the honking comes from, and why nothing seems to melt. In these temperatures, perhaps nothing ever will, but you hold out hope regardless.
Whatever you do, do not ask yourself why you’re here. Wondering what you’re still doing in a city you don’t live in provokes a special type of loneliness, the kind that melts your brain more than the shrooms you purchased there. You’re much better off downloading a dating app or two. When the options are endless, so are the highs felt while exploring them. No matter that what goes up must come down — that’s what the meds are for. For now, enjoy swiping through the endless sea of semi-eligible bachelors online, acquiring matches like they’re free at the bar. You might just end up with a few in your back pocket: swiped from a Brazilian brunch spot, an organic wine bar, the new Italian place two blocks down. Some of these might look like keepers; and you’re sure to think of them fondly every next time someone asks for a light. But you’re less likely to ever see them again. Not the guy who brings you flowers. Not the guy who took your picture. Definitely not the guy who said he’d call. And yet, you light a candle and count your matches like a prayer, calling on the universe to send you one worth melting for.
If you’re the type to lose sleep while you wait, create your own romance by writing letters to the people you miss. Reassure your loved ones that you are still, in fact, only visiting, that you could never move here, on account of the palm trees, the parkways, and all the beautiful people waiting for you in Los Angeles. Write to them about museums you wish you hadn’t been to, gifts you’ll have to ship home, people you’ve met and men you’ve seen. Use all the twenty stamps you bought just days ago from the post office you now frequent. On your way there come morning, realize it is Sunday and use the collection box instead. Wait patiently after the man depositing a set of wedding invitations one at a time and dispense sincere congratulations. On your walk back, greet the crying child, the pedestrian couple, the bundled doodle. Recall a sense of home, the kind that follows integration. Wonder just how long you’ll stay here, exactly when you’ll go. Make no sudden movements, sign no long-term leases, promise nothing to no-one and be back soon.
Andrea Nayeli is a musical artist, photographer, and sometimes writer based in Los Angeles.