In 2017, I was given the opportunity to study classical singing with professors at the prestigious Eastman School of Music, in Rochester, New York. As a high schooler, getting one-on-one time with esteemed faculty from this famous university was very hard to come by, extremely exciting… and incredibly nerve wracking.

The program was a three hour’s plane ride away from my home in New Mexico. I’d be living with a roommate in a college dorm for a month. That would be the longest time I’d lived alone that far from my parents.

When my parents and I got into an Uber to head to campus, I remember looking out the window, surprised to see how small the city was. When I thought of  ‘music’ and ‘New York’ put together, my mind went straight to bustling streets, skyscrapers, glitz, glamour and energy at every corner. But Rochester is in the Northern part of the state. Hours away from New York City.

The slightly unkempt streets of mid-town were lined with wall-to-wall faded pastel wood condos. I remember seeing two kids shooting hoops in their front yard and running into each other, seemingly because there was always less space to run around in than they’d hoped. The shopper’s buildings were short, flat roofed, made of brick or stone. I could tell when they were newly refurbished almost immediately, because there wasn’t paint chipping off the seams of each cemented rock.

All of this was in extreme contrast to Eastman campus.

The main auditorium at Eastman School of Music is made of glass, with a domed ceiling that towers over everything else on the block. When I walked up the stairs to the stage, the bamboo floors were freshly polished. I could see the grand piano’s reflection at my feet. A red velvet curtain cascaded down from the ceiling. I was in awe that I’d be performing here in a month.

For the first five days or so, I attended my classes quickly and quietly, did my homework in the lobby, and then would go back to my room and text friends back at home until dark. Sometimes until 3am since that was only midnight for them. I didn’t see my roommate much. She would spend a lot of the day out exploring. She’d sometimes invite me along, but I wasn’t really interested in exploring the city that kept me up at night with the sounds of sirens in the distance.

Then one night after rehearsal, a few girls invited me to go to grab pastries with them. I had been pretty recluse up to that point, so I was surprised they even knew my name. However, music theory homework was looking pretty daunting for that weekend, so I decided I was happy to have the distraction.

They took me about 3 blocks east of campus, and turned into a little blue door in the middle of the plaza. The sign hanging over it read “Java Café”. A bronze bell rang over our heads as it hit against the door frame. I was immediately greeted with a classic, vintage coffee bar. Hand-drawn chalkboard menu, copper espresso machine, tiered scone tray and all. The walls were painted cobalt blue, adorned with abstract paintings and distorted, modernist photos. The music was ambient and smooth. Almost as soothing as the smell of fresh cinnamon coffee cake, hot from the oven, being panned into the display case.

Walking around the corner I saw a mahogany staircase leading into a basement, coated in scarlet light. It was a bit steep, so I clung to the gothic black metal railing. The ambient music from above faded away as I descended, gradually being replaced in my ear by the sound of reggae. At the bottom, immediately to my right is a line of three pool tables, a bar at the far end. I immediately ask a hand for balls and cues, challenging one of my friends to a two out of three.

I went back upstairs and ordered an Aztec mocha (a mocha with a dash of red chili powder; a New Mexican staple, that apparently is also found in Rochester.) They served it to me downstairs, where I was already beating my friend at pool. Decisively.

After accepting defeat, the four of us went back upstairs and sat on the wood barstools in the breakfast nook. I ordered another mocha, iced this time. There were street performers playing the bongos and singing for a modest, but very engaged impromptu audience out in the plaza. They were only illuminated by the dim cream lights strung between lamp posts at either end of the lawn. Watching intently from the window, I sipped at my mocha and spiced dark chocolate filled every crevasse of my mouth. Its rich, decadent taste seemed to melt all my apprehension away. I fell into a daze, and the sounds of the room started to fade into the background. I hadn’t felt this relaxed in weeks.

I might have remained like that for the whole evening, but I was snapped back to reality by a young man greeting us at our table. He introduced himself as a free-lance artist trying to make a name for himself. As we invited him to sit down, he pulled a small black folder out of his saddle bag and opened it to reveal four charcoal sketches. Portraits of each of us.

I took the aged piece of paper he’d drawn me on delicately from his charcoal blackened hands. I had a half smile on my face, eyes closed, taking a sip from my mocha. It looked like it belonged in a kooky Art Deco frame, posted on the wall with the rest of the art in this place. It almost seemed wrong to take the drawing out the door; it felt like I’d be ripping it from its home.

He asked us if we’d like to make a donation, and of course I accepted. I was captivated by the unique, quirky, animated style behind the piece. I found myself glancing at it and smiling for the rest of the night. I don’t think the frame I bought for it does it justice, but it is still hanging in my room to this day.

For the rest of that trip I couldn’t stop exploring the city. I visited the Java Café more times that I want to admit. (Let’s just say, by the end I’d reached first name basis with a few employees.) I started going to more concerts and sight singing parties with friends (these are where a bunch of singers come together to since a piece no one there has ever seen before. It doesn’t always sound great, but it sure is fun!) I contacted home less and less as I got more wrapped up in the city.

On the last weekend of the trip, I introduced everyone to a small underground karaoke bar I’d found one night, and we all surprised each other with songs to sing. I was given Sweet Child o’ Mine by Guns and Roses. Whenever I hear it I’m reminded of that trip, and the people I got to know over that month. A lot of them lived abroad, and I haven’t seen them in person since. But we’ll always have Rochester, Java, and Eastman School of Music.