Love/Hate

That's my relationship with New York.

Just when I think I can't stand another minute of midtown at rush hour, teeming with dawdling tourists and pushy suits who glare at anyone who dare cross their paths. Or when I might cause physical harm to the 20 year old girls filling their aisle-blocking carts with the organic food I'm not sure how they can afford at Whole Foods. Or when I shudder at the thought of walking through another cloud of stinky sewer steam rising from the street. Or when every truck in Manhattan happens to be honking and revving their engines on the very street I'm attempting to walk down. Or when I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, drop my bags of groceries, and call Eric to come help me because I simply cannot bear the thought of carrying those heavy bags another block (true story. Drama queen much?)...

Just when I wonder how it's possible to live here at all, New York does its thing:

It reminds me that the light is changing in the city, to something so beautiful, when everything is bathed in the amber glow of fall, gently taking over the sultry summer haze. And then it shows me that a Tasti DeLite is opening up around the corner from my office (!). And then it brings me to Riverside Park at sunset and yoga class when the city is just waking up, and everything around me, even if only for a few moments seens calm and clear and simple.

And then suddenly, New York feels good again.

In homage

To catch a recent 6 am flight, I caught a cab at 3:30 in the morning. This is obviously a ghastly hour to me, one which I see approximately three times a year, and usually there is a wedding, the Burp Castle, or, as in this case, an airplane involved. Everyone knows that New York is the city that never sleeps, but I was still amazed at the number and variety of people that were out at that time, the deadest time, the time when the world should be silent and sleeping.

This is a tribute to those people who are on the streets of New York, creating an eerily peaceful sense of motion in a city that thrives on just such a pulse.

To the doormen and security guards, finally reaching the last hours of the graveyard shift, standing in clusters on street corners and under awnings, silently sharing their final cigarettes of the night.

To the brave and stupid woman who stumbles off the subway in her white pants and 5 inch heels, teetering drunkenly home from another glittering night on the town, escaping once again the evils lurking in the shadows.

To the ConEdison workers, slowing traffic even when there shouldn’t be any, to make the repairs that will keep the lights on for the unknowing New Yorkers when they wake up in the morning.

To the hardest partiers, hanging on to the last moments of another Friday night, laughing with and leaning on friends and lovers in the doorways of the bars still sticky from the hours of Jager-bombs, Bud Lights, and dirty martinis.

To the crazy or the drug-addicted, waiting manically outside of diners and delis, screaming at no one and everyone, surviving the loneliest hour of the day.

To the middle-aged man in an SUV, windows rolled down, and music cranked up, unabashedly blasting Shakira at a time where no one would think to laugh.

To the lines of cars at McDonalds, filled with people just getting off work or just leaving the bars, never quite ready to go home and always ready for a Filet-o-Fish or Supersized fries, because everyone knows that the calories consumed at that hour don’t count.

It was all these people that painted the landscape as I rode silently through sleek, champagne-drunk Manhattan, across the bridge, and through a rawer, whiskey-soaked Queens. During the day, when everyone is in a hurry and people, except for those rare gems who cannot help but call attention to their eccentricity, are more in the way than part of the city’s beauty, it’s impossible to appreciate people- normal people, just doing what they do week after week, day after day. But at 3 am, when the mind and heart are too tired to judge, the city becomes a work of living art.

Stuff You Don't Want To Hear

2 men yelling "SH%T!!" as their runaway Halal food cart (aka the hot dog cart of the new millenium aka Street Meat Vendor) rolls startling quickly down the hill towards you.



Also, there's a 20 ft inflatable rat stationed outside my office today. Curious.

Just a snippet...

They say the third time's a charm, and I've never been a quitter, so I'm going to try to get back on the blog horse again. I love reading them, I love writing them, apparently you love reading this one, and there's a lot of great material out there (hello- can you say "easily entertained tourists + your average every day squirrels = major Central Park photo shoot? Entertainment doesn't get any better than that, people.) What it boils down to is there are really very few excuses for not keeping you up to date on the big city life.

I've collected a number of humorous and semi-thoughtful anecdotes over the last few months, but those will have to be saved for my new and improved blog to come later this week. For now, I leave you with this article from the New York Times that quite accurately sums up our experience as relatively new New Yorkers. For those of you who may have noticed my heightened affinity for sarcasm, lowered tolerance for stupidity and slow walkers, and childlike awe of open space, large apartments, $4 beers, and rent under $1000/month--- this will explain a lot.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/27/nyregion/27arrival.html?8ur&emc=ur

Until next time (and I promise it won't be 5 months, or a year, from now)...