I’ve spent a lot of time recently thinking about my home. New York City. Specifically, the Upper West Side, though I’m not sure how important that fact is to this thesis. “They” say that if you’ve lived in New York City for 10 years you’re a real New Yorker. I’m assuming “they” is someone on an episode of Sex and the City, whose authority is iron clad on this subject. As I approach the 10-year mark (eight down, two to go!), I’ve found myself pondering what it actually means to be a real New Yorker.
As far as personality-types are concerned, I have never really understood denominations such as “introverted extrovert” or the like. Honestly, that sounds like an oxymoron to me. However, mulling the label over in my head right now it seems right on the money for New Yorkers. Many of my friends with the longest tenure in the big apple are introverts. Alone time is a necessity to this type and is shockingly provided in ample amount in the city that never sleeps. Those that hate being alone get a dog. Hi Hudson!
Routine routine routine. New Yorkers are like machines. It’s easier to wade through the crap – rotting poop water, crammed subways, screaming Broadway homeless charlatans – when you’re on a mission. In our beloved city, those that thrive are always on a mission. As my friend and official New Yorker, Lauren, always says “you just have to settle in.” Settle in to what you might ask? Living adjacent to eleventy billion other people gets easier when you’ve settled into the reality of that fact. Like the fact that you’ll probably see a penis or two on your morning commute. You will absolutely, at some point in your time as an NYC resident, get stuck on a subway (extra points if your car has no AC and it’s August). It’s the routine of each day that gets you through at first. After a while, that routine is what endears people to the city. Do I love my fifth-floor walk-up? Not at first, but when my building’s roof flooded, and thousands of gallons of water came crashing down the stairwell, I began taking those steps two at a time with outlandishly appreciative gusto.
So, you can see that after years of dealing with radioactive waste-lined streets and daily verbal assault, finally getting the title – A Real New Yorker – packs the best kind of punch. In reality, though, there are some serious perks to living in a city where everyone has tunnel vision for their own prerogative. It’s like the constant barrage of movie trailers on the side of Amsterdam Avenue have made us think we, too, are the stars in a movie – everyone else is just an extra on set. As each day has passed, I’ve felt myself lean into this bizarre fact, for better or worse. As an aside, I feel a kind of kinship with those that rant on the corner with reckless abandon, if you’re going to be an extra you might as well be memorable.
Perks of living in NYC.. let’s see, I know there are some. Kidding. There are tons, mostly related to easy access to anything at all hours of the day and night. But what about the perks that take years to fully understand. One example is the good old-fashioned street cry. In New York City, if you’re sad/upset/whatever and start to cry, you literally can do so on any street corner without interruption. As long as you’re not blocking the flow of traffic or hurling fluids at passersby, cry on. It’s quite liberating actually. I don’t cry a lot and rarely do outside the confines of my apartment, but on the rare occasion I’m reduced to tears at sea level, I’m okay with it. No one looks twice. It’s pure bliss. You’re the extra on set crying and everyone is okay with it.
As I write this, I see frantic snowflakes falling onto the avenue below. It would be peaceful if it weren’t for the dump trucks scraping the pavement so loudly and unsuccessfully below. Luckily the horrible sound of attempted snow removal is being drowned out by a couple outside the bar down the block scream shouting at one another. Perhaps it’s the snow providing added acoustics, but by the sounds of it, they have HAD IT. While there aren’t a lot of people milling about, there are passersby literally walking in a respectful semi-circle around said couple not even batting an eye. Why? Because it’s New York, there’s not a lot of room, and sometimes you need some real estate (tonight it’s the sidewalk outside of Van Leeuwens) to tell your husband/boyfriend/male extra to go fuck himself. Minutes later, after a long unsuccessful scrape from the loudest truck in the western hemisphere, the scene has ended, our leading couple walking arm in arm presumably towards Duane Read to buy Twizzlers and Gatorade.
As you can see, from the cockpit of my office on my not-so-quiet Upper West Side corner, I don’t really know what it means to be a New Yorker. All I know is I live in a city that makes me hustle. One that makes me feel welcome in the pleasantly dissociative way toddlers sometimes do when introduced to adults. In my movie of life in the big city, some of my favorite extras are those tenured New Yorkers I referred to earlier. As I make the segue from extra to real New Yorker, there may be tears, but I settle into my insomnia with pleasure because that’s showbiz, baby.
The Dog Hair Diaries 