I feel like I’ve been down on New York lately. My friends have been drinking every time I mention Seattle since January.
While it’s true, my 90-degree, humid apartment is not my favorite, I don’t hate New York. It’s not an easy place to live, but if it was, everyone would do it.
Every time I leave for a trip, I feel sad. Last Saturday as I walked to the M60 bus stop to catch the bus to LaGuardia, I saw my neighborhood from a new perspective. I used to feel like an outsider here, but I just learned my uncle lived just a couple blocks away from my apartment and my other uncle lived at the other end of Morningside Park, so I’m basically legacy. I belong here!
The M60 took me down lively 125th Street in Harlem and past the Bronx, as I stared out the window. Then we crossed the bridge to Randall’s Island and over my soccer fields. It made me miss my team. We passed through Astoria, Queens, and I remembered the beer garden there and the Museum of the Moving Image that I never visited. I also hate that I never lived in Brooklyn.
Life seems to be pulling me away from New York – and that’s OK, good even – but that doesn’t mean I won’t cry when giving my notice or packing my things. It doesn’t mean I won’t dream of moving back some day. Next time to Brooklyn.
And it certainly won’t stop me from pushing my New York propaganda on my nieces and nephews. I’d love it if they took a turn as New Yorkers.
I’m a journalist, content strategist, doting auntie, amateur bobsledder, fitness enthusiast, and wannabe health nut (who loves chocolate and pizza too much to fully commit). I don't want you to think my life is perfect. It's not.