New York, I love you.
But you’re bringing me down.
| 06 | M |
BROOKLYN
I’d been in NYC for three days. Each morning my childhood friends — who now live disparate lives in the biggest of apples — inquired, “What would you like to do?”
Each morning I’d shrug my shoulders, “I honestly just want to go to the library.” And so received their curious glances — squinted eyes and scrunched noses, cocked with their heads at parallel 45degrees.
“Ok… But you should probably go to the Whit. They’ve got a great Jeff Koons exhibition on right now. All my friends have raved about it. Just borrow my membership card and you’ll get free admission,” the first pipes up.
“Right. Yeah, I probably should,” I say. But I don’t care. No disrespect intended towards Mr. Koons, of course.
“Or, just do what you want,” says the second, more veteran New Yorker, who holds a very real distaste for museums of all kinds.
I accepted the Whitney membership card. At least this will end the conversation.
MANHATTAN
I never did make it to ‘the Whit.’ But on my last day, lugging my suitcase through Midtown Manhattan, I did manage to wander to the front steps of the New York Public Library. Twice.
The first visit I spent observing. Then, succumbing to feelings of guilt for not wanting to do the stuff everyone apparently wants to do in New York, I left the glorious marble halls and continued to trek.
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Multicolored signs shouted at me for blocks. And then I was at Rockefeller Center.
Okay, that’s cool… God, it’s awfully crowded… Maybe I’ll take the SNL tour… Nah, I don’t even like SNL… There’s the Top of the Rock view of the city… Oh, that costs $30… And it’s about to rain… Maybe I’ll just find lunch down the street…
An hour later and I’d re-routed myself straight back toward the library. Before I knew it, I was back in the Sandra Barnes Saloman Room, engrossed in a modern guide to Buddhism — reading about attaining inner peace, and basking in the quiet.
It was the one place in the whole city where there were chairs to spare, and everyone maintained a composed silence.
NYC PUBLIC LIBRARY
As I slid my computer from its case to write this, a little boy wearing an Ibrihomović (#10) t-shirt jersey sat down across from me. His big, dark eyes scan me and my computer, then the rest of the room. He is absolutely quiet, and absolutely ok with being absolutely alone. Surely, his guardian is nearby, I’d guess. But this small, apparently commonplace, event is one moment that describes NYC at its finest.
I have never seen a comparable melting pot of language, culture, age, or gender. I probably I heard more English spoken in Denmark than here, not that there’s anything wrong with that. New York City feels remarkably safe in its diversity. Safe, but caked in the soot and grime of overuse more appropriate for a less self-consciously hygienic time.
A LASTING IMPRESSION
NYC could use some beauty rest at this late an hour, but this broad never sleeps. Time here will stop for no man — nor any millions of men — and ya got to get while the gettin’s good.
Opportunistic. That’s the word.
This place is home to the ultimate game of catch. Don’t blink, keep your eye on the ball. It’s no wonder New Yorkers loves their Yankees so much. Even in that nickname, they found pride in what was intended as a slight.
Yes, they are Yankees — brash and unapologetic in all their glory. Because everyone should call it exactly as they see it. And everyone should embrace exactly what they are. As unrealistic as those supposedly exact self-perceptions may be, where every waiter and waitress is the next big Broadway star. They each deliver their line desperately, “Would you like soup or salad with your entrée?” Because they are acutely aware of their role to play.
So keep on NYC — keep spreading that idea of a glimmer of a dream to all those world-weary wanderers who seek it.
It is a kind of comfort, to know that you are here, hustling and bustling each day. Your crowded air and space are always willing to expand for another weary immigrant looking for their next adventure. Here it seems that the idea of a better life might just be all it takes to make one.
I may not be your style, NYC, but I’m sure there could be a place for me. A dank, rent-controlled place, buried in a borough, with three roommates, and an off-kilter floor — but a place nonetheless.
I may not pick up what you put down, New York, but I know you’ve placed it there for a reason.
