Despite its dreadful midtown traffic and sweat-scented subway cars, I love New York City for its gritty, adrenaline-inducing character. When I recently traveled there for the weekend, I was hoping to reconnect with old friends and discover more hidden gems among the many hole-in-the-wall eateries the city offers. Little did I know a small jazz bar would inspire me to look at city life in a different light.
After spending Friday night in a cozy Columbia University dorm with some high school friends, I craved some alone time. After brunch tacos at Tacombi, a Citi Bike along the Empire State Trail, a new book at the Book Club Bar and a performance of “Hell’s Kitchen” at Shubert Theater, I ended the night with a walk around the city. Walking around aimlessly with my headphones, barely noticing the bustling life around me, I stumbled into the Blue Note Jazz Club.
The jazz bar was intimate and dimly lit with warm golden light, the leather seats and high-top wooden tables tightly packed around the small stage. The room hummed with conversation, and the crowd was close enough to the musicians that the barrier between the guests and the performers blurred. Finding a corner seat to the left of the stage, I paused to absorb my surroundings. As flocks of New Yorkers drifted in and took their seats, shifting their attention from their conversations as the headlining musician took the stage, a realization hit me that I was finally tuning in to the rhythm of life I had been rushing past all day.
That night, musician Sid Sriram performed with special guests Theo Croker and Weedie Braimah, as well as instrumental accompaniments from Julius Rodriguez and Austin Williamson. Drawing from South Indian Carnatic music, Sriram played tracks from his new album “Sidharth”, a soulful and emotional collection. In the middle of his set, Sriram slowed things down with “Dear Sahana,” an R&B- and Indian classical-inspired gospel melody about longing for connection. The lyrics seemed to resonate with everyone in the room, as the soft, plaintive tones of Sriram’s voice wove together an intimate desire to belong, to be understood and to find comfort in the presence of another.
As the room grew quiet, I looked around. A woman who was sitting alone just a few seats down caught my eye and smiled. Another man sitting next to me, who had been quietly listening the entire night, shed a tear. He made no attempt to wipe it away; it seemed his vulnerability wasn’t something to hide here — it was an intentional reflection of the raw emotions of the music. I gently placed my napkin next to him and we exchanged a brief yet powerful nod. As the room swelled with the emotion of the song, I felt an ache in my chest reminiscent of loneliness and longing — but in that small room, surrounded by strangers, it provided a quiet comfort.
I had experienced one of those rare moments in a vast city where I realized how close we all are — how, despite the crowds, we can still find moments of intimacy in the most unexpected settings. Growing up in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, I had always thought of urban life as a crowded train where no one meets another’s eyes: We all move past each other, absorbed in our own universes. But this moment showed me how awe-inspiring city life can be — its magic lies not in its grandeur or scale but in tiny moments where, at least for a few minutes, I believe that I belong to something greater than myself.
Whether navigating Washington, D.C., or even just our campus, there are many opportunities to slow down, let yourself be lost, engage with those you meet and feel part of something rather than be a lone traveler through the world. These moments don’t have to be rare — they can be found anywhere if we seek them out. For me, it happened in a jazz club, but you can find them in Midnight MUG, at a bench on the National Mall, in line at Call Your Mother or just about any other place. So, I encourage you to find your own “jazz club moment.” Look around you: You might not know people’s names or their stories, but you’ll feel a connection with them through the rhythm of life you share. Wherever you find yourself, take the time to be present and let yourself be in community with others.
Nhan Phan is a first-year in the College of Arts & Sciences. This is the second installment of his column, “Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost.”