A New York left behind

People often ask me if I miss New York. I don’t. 

Since moving to California, nearly everyone asks me if I miss New York once they hear that’s where I’m from. “New York! So do you like San Francisco? Do you miss New York yet? You must miss it a ton.”

This is where they — strangers, acquaintances, good friends new and old— expect some variation of, “Yes, but” — Yes, but I am glad to be here. Yes, but I needed a break. Yes, but I’m going home soon. Or just yes — yes I do miss New York; I miss it very much.

The truth is, I don’t miss New York, not one bit. I don’t miss the crowds, the limited sidewalk real estate, hurried lunches in Midtown, sceney brunches in Chelsea, late nights at bars open past 3am (be honest, no good ever came of staying out past three), the L, the ‘tude, the pleas for petition signing (no I do not have a minute for the environment — I recycle and compost every day), the pigeons, the tourists, and all the weekend service advisories that seem to sneak up on you whenever you need to get somewhere in a hurry (in other words, always). Like a good New Yorker, when it comes to New York, I am completely and utterly jaded.

I know that I am spoiled to have grown up in New York — to have memorized my favorite wings of the Met after yet another middle school field trip; to have been so over the Meatpacking District by the time I was 21. “There’s always going to be another new bar or restaurant to try,” I sigh and try to explain when asked why I left New York. “It’s always the same.”

But no one wants to hear that. Everyone has their own version of New York, which they hold onto dearly — any discussion about being “over” the city inevitably falls on deaf ears. Fond memories of that first summer internship spent in Manhattan; the two years post-graduation living in Brooklyn with friends from college; the day that loyalty to the Mets (or God forbid the Yankees) was decided; the first time a Craigslister joined the apartment and all the antics, headaches (but boy did they make good stories) that ensued — New York is golden, for just about everyone who visits or lives there.

And yet, I wouldn’t dream of moving back to New York—not any time soon at least. Many of my friends have made it their home, and my family is still there, too (though for how much longer, that’s hard to say). I write this now on a quick holiday visit home, but a visit is a far cry from moving back “for good.”

For good means forever, and also for better. For me, for better means living in a city that doesn’t make me jaded (hardly a flattering look); it means living in a city that improves my quality of life. New York knew that if it asked me to, I could always be on. I could match its intensity day and night, work and play, but it could just as easily leave me more tired than inspired. In San Francisco, late nights at work are not a badge of courage but a sign of inefficiency, so here I work better, not harder. Having hobbies outside of work is the norm, not the exception, as is swapping late nights for early mornings. This is a city that rewards and encourages the early riser, so I happily and regularly honor my inner morning person with AM hikes and outdoor adventures.

San Francisco is the antidote to that home-grown East coast neuroticism, reminding me to walk slower, walk lighter, to make eye contact; to budget ten extra minutes for a coffee run because good coffee is made with care and worth the wait; to share a moment with the cashier because no one is in a rush (or if they are, they are simply too polite to tell you, or to imply as much through heavy sighs and tapping feet). Weekends I thrill in scoring cheap, last-minute tickets to concerts that in New York would be sold out in a heartbeat; evenings I am rewarded with a well-crafted drink in under five minutes— without having to elbow my way through throngs of fellow merry-makers or flirt my order over to the bartender. I am surprised and delighted by this every time.

The Honeymoon phase! Friends from home exclaim. But San Francisco is more than new and shiny to me. I see its flaws laid bare—hardly any seasons, soaring rental prices, rapid, contentious gentrification — but still it suits me in ways New York cannot. New York may have been perfect for the high school me, but at 28, the city feels like an ex-boyfriend I’ve outgrown. The break-up wasn’t messy, but it was inevitable; we were heading down different paths and everyone could see it.

It’s possible, of course, that some day in the future we will find ourselves on the same page again, caught up to speed and moving at the same pace — our goals, dreams and life plans once more aligned. Perhaps one day we’ll meet again at our favorite place, wax nostalgic about the things we did and saw together, the friends we made and lost, the adventures we had and those we never got around to. Maybe we, like everyone before us, will look back fondly on the good times, and even on the bad (for we learned something all the same), and remember it was worth it.

But then again, maybe not. Maybe once we’ve run through the archives, exhausted our happy memories and outworn our welcome at the bar we used to know so well, we will find we have grown up and apart — and perhaps this is as it should it be. We’ll put on our coats, pay our separate tabs, part ways, and each of us go home, remembering how different (how young? how foolish?) we used to be.

When people ask me if I miss New York, I tell them I did, once upon a time, a long way back, ago. We had a good run, I say, back when we were good for each other. But nothing is forever, so we bid the other farewell, each of us with no regrets. A wave, a kiss, a goodbye, until the next time — until we meet again.