“They say life's what happens when you're busy making other plans. But sometimes in New York, life is what happens when you're waiting for a table." -Carrie Bradshaw: Sex and the CIty
Time passes so quickly here in NYC! Its hard to fathom that it was seven months ago that I pulled up to East Village in a stretch limo with two suitcases and a plan. While riding in front of the glistening Manhattan skyline in the limo (that was mistakenly sent to the Newark Airport for me), I probably did feel a little bit fabulous like Carrie Bradshaw. Life felt like the movies: There I was- the protagonist- alone in a city of strangers with nothing but a dream to pursue. It was magical.
But then I realized: Life is not Sex and The City. I didn't have a walk in closet: I had a water pipe that conveniently could support some clothes hangers. I limped out of the E train in heels for weeks before I ran out of bandaids and patience for fabulosity. Carrie never mentioned that buying a pair of Manolo's (or an Alexis Bittar Ring in my case) would be a challenge when your paycheck goes mostly towards covering rent and your affinity for weekend brunch. Carrie also didn't prepare me for radiators breaking on 13 degree winter nights or waking up to rat poop on my pillow. (True story)
Let's face it: Life as a 20-something in NYC is a lot more like the HBO show, Girls.
Life in NYC can be so outrageously un-fabulous at times, but that's precisely what makes it so fabulously and quintessentially New York City. This morning, my train was delayed for 20 minutes. And as I stared at the rodent eating from a soggy bag of cheetos on the subway track, I finally decided to leave the platform to try to hail a cab. It took 30 minutes, 10 streets, and three avenues until I found a cab. And I thought, "God, it must be nice to live somewhere normal where you can walk 10 feet to your garage, climb in your air conditioned car, and drive yourself to work". But then we drove past the flat iron building. I tried to talk on my cell phone over the sound of blaring horns on the street and cawing seagulls on the Hudson. I waited in the line outside of the coffee shop, until I was greeted by name and with my usual latte by the barista. I put my coffee and breakfast down on my desk, only to be summoned to a meeting before I could take a bite. As I left the office, I saw an Orthodox Jew, a hipster covered in tattoos, and a man in drag holding the same pole on the subway car. When we arrived at the 8th Avenue stop, the herd of people all rushed off to transfer trains. We walked past the acapella group who always performs at the station around the time everyone gets off of work. Seldom does anyone stop. We all have our headphones in. But everyday, I pause my music so that I can hear the four men singing as I walk by. I get home, and have my dinner delivered to my house. I have approximately 600 different restaurants to chose from. I get a call to go to happy hour and get some wine. Its a weekday. But it doesn't matter: the city never sleeps. In the cab (which thankfully takes less than 30 minutes to find this time) I drive past some graffiti.
And this is when I remember: I'm glad I don't live somewhere normal, where I can walk 10 feet to my garage, hop in my air conditioned car, and drive to work. Sure, the city can be frustrating. Sometimes I miss seeing trees. But where else could I live and experience so much randomness, so much intensity, and so much diversity in one day? Every day is an adventure. Sometimes its a great adventure: like transporting an expensive parcel of diamonds across Manhattan, watching a stranger give up his seat on the train for a woman and her child, spotting a celebrity, or unexpectedly bumping into an old friend in the middle of a crowded street. Sometimes the adventure isn't so great: like watching a bum pick lint out of his belly button on a crowded train, causing a fender bender while jaywalking across tenth avenue, or even waking up to rat poop on your pillow. But! Its an adventure nonetheless. A story to tell.
And that is my rant of the day. Perhaps tomorrow, as I spill my coffee, miss my train, or have my umbrella blown inside out, I will smile at my frustration instead of having a fleeting (but overwhelming) desire to return to a place of normalcy where morning commutes aren't a mental and physical test of endurance.
Let's face it: Life as a 20-something in NYC is a lot more like the HBO show, Girls.
Life in NYC can be so outrageously un-fabulous at times, but that's precisely what makes it so fabulously and quintessentially New York City. This morning, my train was delayed for 20 minutes. And as I stared at the rodent eating from a soggy bag of cheetos on the subway track, I finally decided to leave the platform to try to hail a cab. It took 30 minutes, 10 streets, and three avenues until I found a cab. And I thought, "God, it must be nice to live somewhere normal where you can walk 10 feet to your garage, climb in your air conditioned car, and drive yourself to work". But then we drove past the flat iron building. I tried to talk on my cell phone over the sound of blaring horns on the street and cawing seagulls on the Hudson. I waited in the line outside of the coffee shop, until I was greeted by name and with my usual latte by the barista. I put my coffee and breakfast down on my desk, only to be summoned to a meeting before I could take a bite. As I left the office, I saw an Orthodox Jew, a hipster covered in tattoos, and a man in drag holding the same pole on the subway car. When we arrived at the 8th Avenue stop, the herd of people all rushed off to transfer trains. We walked past the acapella group who always performs at the station around the time everyone gets off of work. Seldom does anyone stop. We all have our headphones in. But everyday, I pause my music so that I can hear the four men singing as I walk by. I get home, and have my dinner delivered to my house. I have approximately 600 different restaurants to chose from. I get a call to go to happy hour and get some wine. Its a weekday. But it doesn't matter: the city never sleeps. In the cab (which thankfully takes less than 30 minutes to find this time) I drive past some graffiti.
And this is when I remember: I'm glad I don't live somewhere normal, where I can walk 10 feet to my garage, hop in my air conditioned car, and drive to work. Sure, the city can be frustrating. Sometimes I miss seeing trees. But where else could I live and experience so much randomness, so much intensity, and so much diversity in one day? Every day is an adventure. Sometimes its a great adventure: like transporting an expensive parcel of diamonds across Manhattan, watching a stranger give up his seat on the train for a woman and her child, spotting a celebrity, or unexpectedly bumping into an old friend in the middle of a crowded street. Sometimes the adventure isn't so great: like watching a bum pick lint out of his belly button on a crowded train, causing a fender bender while jaywalking across tenth avenue, or even waking up to rat poop on your pillow. But! Its an adventure nonetheless. A story to tell.
And that is my rant of the day. Perhaps tomorrow, as I spill my coffee, miss my train, or have my umbrella blown inside out, I will smile at my frustration instead of having a fleeting (but overwhelming) desire to return to a place of normalcy where morning commutes aren't a mental and physical test of endurance.
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