I moved to Brooklyn a couple months ago. I live at the far end of a local train; it takes about 40 minutes to get into the city–on weekdays, at rush hour (other times, well, never mind). Every morning I switch trains about half-way to work, though, even if I have to wait on the platform, just so I can go over the Manhattan Bridge. If I catch the N, I look south over the cranes poking out of the East River, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Financial District and the Statue. If I catch the D, I look north at Midtown, the Williamsburg Bridge, and in the distance Harlem, where I used to live. My favorite part might be, on the ride back home to Brooklyn, when the train rises out of the tunnel and shoots upward through Chinatown, one of my favorite parts of the whole city. Or world.
I keep imagining that eventually I’m going to get inured to these particular vistas. Be engrossed in what I’m reading and not bother to look up. It probably will. Eventually.
Sunday will be my 10th anniversary since I moved to New York. In that time, I’ve had friends who have been *so* excited to move to the city, and then have moved away. People get fatigued; long for green; crack under the “grind” or complain about the coldness or disaffection.
Is this real love? I think I’m cheating a little bit. I know that loving New York is a relationship of convenience. My work is here (and I love my work); I have found myself a comfortable and happy niche in an industry whose world epicenter is New York. I have really wonderful friends, and many of them are in New York, too. The others are willing to visit and be dragged around to my favorite eateries. So maybe this is a case like when the cynical aunt reminds us that it’s as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor man. New York–for me–is a pretty damn rich man.
But I think I’m genuinely weak at the knees. Still. After all this time. This won’t make me look cool, but (who am I trying to fool here, anyway) things like this make me tear up. Yeah, I know. Don’t judge me.
Sometimes love makes sense to your friends, sometimes it only makes sense to you. Sometimes it doesn’t make sense at all.
This, though, makes sense.
I love New York.