New York. She can be a bitch and a temptress, can’t she?
When I was growing up in upstate New York, I would often visit my father who worked in Manhattan. Sometimes for a weekend, sometimes for longer over school breaks. This was in the early/mid 90’s.
As a kid, during the winter holidays, my father would take me to see “The Nutcracker” at Lincoln Center, the infamous window displays at Saks, the massive, sparkling tree in Rockefeller Center. In my teen years, we’d have dinner at his current favorite restaurant and he’d always have a dish to recommend, saying that *this* was the dish to have at the restaurant. Squid ink pasta at Basta Pasta, where I remember being fascinated by the paper “tablecloths” and the way the servers would rip them off of huge rolls and the tearing sound that echoed throughout the place. Foie gras and champagne at L’Absinthe Brasserie where my father allowed me to sneak little sips of his champagne while I gazed around at all of the mirrors and cosmopolitan diners while trying to act grownup. Spaghetti with white truffles at an Italian place, the name which escapes my mind, but I’m pretty sure it was partially below street level.
Often we’d go to jazz clubs. Birdland, Blue Note, Village Vanguard. He’d let me order a cocktail since there was a drink minimum, and somehow my age was never questioned. My cocktails of choice those days? Either Sex on the Beach (because I felt so risqué just ordering it by name) or a Fuzzy Navel (because that was what my girlfriends and I would often make when we had sleepovers and could raid the liquor cabinet). I’d find a stool to perch on and listen to the musicians jamming away, grooving along with all of the other patrons in the dimly lit yet vibrant space.
One time, we even went to the now-defunct Limelight club. (I can’t believe it’s been turned into some commercial market space.) It must have been after a party or gallery opening. I was around sixteen, wearing (I think) dark blue fine-waled bootcut corduroys, with a short sleeve button down shirt that was left unbuttoned, and a tank top underneath. Think Alloy meets Delia*s haphazard skater look. And I was probably wearing my metallic gunmetal grey Doc Marten rip-off boots. I felt so cool that night and stood near the bar, scoping out the scene, amazed that I was in a New York City nightclub (albeit on a slow night). Before I knew it, an older guy started chatting me up and I found myself politely making conversation while slowly inching away…until I found myself at the end of the bar without anymore inching space. I told the guy was I sixteen, he gracefully (or creepily) said that I looked older, and I quickly escaped back to my father who was sitting somewhere off to the side. I started to recount what happened, and he said that he saw the whole thing since he had been keeping an eye on me, and found the situation quite funny (in a good-natured way). I laughed, too, and decided that I had had an authentic New York experience.
In high school, my friends and I would find excuses to make our way down to the city. My parents always had the mindset that I should be independent, and trusted me to be able to navigate the city by myself (and my father was always working and didn’t have the time to chaperone me). My girlfriends and I would traverse across the whole downtown area, finding secondhand and vintage clothing stores to scour for great finds, along with music stores like Tower Records and any cool clothing stores that we wouldn’t be able to find in our small suburban town upstate.
I loved the feel of the city back then – it was just slightly gritty, and had a raw and real feeling to it. I wanted to live there. I wanted to be one of the millions who lived and worked in the city, riding the subways, walking the sidewalks in the sticky summer heat, going out to dinners at different restaurants, being one of the artsy cool people hanging out at the galleries and jazz clubs. This was where I could fit in, because there were so many types of people there and no one cared if you marched to the beat of your own drummer. I was seduced by it all.
When college application time came around, I crossed my fingers for an acceptance letter from NYU. I was crushed when I received a flimsy envelope in the mail from them – I knew without opening it that I wouldn’t be spending the next four years in Manhattan. I went off to Boston, instead, and then after that, moved overseas for a few years to teach English, in true post-college-denial fashion. At the age of 25, I found myself moving to New York City with my new husband, as we both grasped onto the New York Dream with hope and eager anticipation.
We were going to make it there. I was going to make it there. At last, I’d be able to join the ranks of chic New Yorkers. My job was going to take me places, I was finally going to be able to enjoy the city as a young adult. Restaurants, cocktail parties, fab friends, fab wardrobe (stocked with lots of black) – they were all going to be mine. What I didn’t account for were the long work hours and difficult co-workers and clients that would leave me absolutely exhausted at the end of each week. I didn’t account for the fact that I wouldn’t be able to afford a decent apartment in the city, and that I would be living out in Queens instead. I forgot that I’m an introvert at heart, and attending networking events left me feeling awkward and out of place. I didn’t account for a lot of things.
I worked in a conservative and wealthy environment in midtown right off of 5th Avenue, and over time, it made me feel like I was lacking. I wasn’t particularly poised, nor did I have a designer wardrobe. Saks was practically across the street, but I couldn’t afford anything from there. I started wanting what I couldn’t have, and what I was surrounded by on a daily basis. I started putting on airs, trying to fit in. The handbag that I bought from Target suddenly felt cheap and tacky, and I wanted to upgrade. Was my client wearing Louboutins and carrying a Vuitton bag? I wanted that. Another client had a Chloe tote that cost thousands and I wanted to be able to afford that, too.
I started lusting after Tory Burch flats (because everyone else had them!), and I wanted a Longchamp tote, too. I’d go into Saks and pretend to contemplate buying pieces that were way beyond my price range, just so I could feel like I was shopping there. I thought that if I had the money and the right clothes and accessories, everything else would fall into place. I would find a better job with a bigger paycheck. I would suddenly be able to chat people up and make friends. I’d become the witty person at the party, the one everyone wanted to talk to.
My next job was located downtown, and I went from conservative pantsuits and pearls to a slightly more laidback style that ranged from shift dresses with knee-high black boots to (eventually) black skinny jeans and heels with loose fitting tops in various neutral shades. I took a paycut at this job but my yearnings for a better, richer lifestyle didn’t diminish. In fact, they grew. I was now working with clients who had pricey lofts in Tribeca, finance people from Goldman Sachs and Citi, successful artists and fashion designers. These people shopped the boutiques and designer stores in Soho and Tribeca and often looked effortlessly cool. I had never seen so many black Amex cards. Once again, I started to feel inadequate. Unstylish. Poor.
The city had changed over the years. Sure, it had become safer and cleaner, but it also lost the eccentric and flaw-embracing side that I had loved. Instead, all I could see were the bankers and PR girls, flaunting their rich and luxe lifestyles. The glittering lives of the ladies on that popular show set in New York City (come on, you know which one I’m talking about) that have tempted so many, were completely beyond my reach. I no longer fit into the city that I had wanted to live in for so long. Living in New York had changed me.
I didn’t fit in uptown – it was too shiny and proper and lacked that unique edge that I sought. The downtown of my memories was no longer. There were still plenty of streets and areas that retained the grittiness I loved and remembered, but much of it had been conquered by the big corporations and new money that were making it a fluffy, glossy version of itself. I felt I didn’t fit in there, either. Everywhere I went and looked, I saw things and people that reminded me that I hadn’t been able to find and live my New York Dream.
My jobs hadn’t gotten me anywhere, I was no longer sure of what I wanted to do with my life, I was still living out in Queens, and I often wondered how I could feel so lonely in such a big city. We couldn’t afford to eat out at restaurants, I couldn’t find people to become friends with, and I was in a rut. My husband said that I had become harder and angrier. I felt that I had become materialistic and resentful and my priorities were skewed. I no longer knew what I truly wanted or who I was, and instead of marching to the beat of my own drummer, I was trying to march in step with everyone else. I felt like New York had decided that I wasn’t the right fit, and she chewed me up and spat me back out.
And so, I had to break up with New York. I wish I didn’t have to. I would have loved to have made it work. There’s still a part of me that thinks that if I tried again, it would be better. I would learn from my mistakes, and know what not to do. But for now, I’m taking a break from her and resetting myself. I still want nice things, but at the end of the day, my possessions don’t define me, and I know they won’t fulfill me in any kind of deep way. I am learning who I am again, little by little.
The Marc Jacobs handbag that I purchased off of Ebay because I wanted something designer? I’ve used it once since moving – it just seems so flashy now. Instead, I’ve downsized to a no-name wristlet clutch that I bought for $20 at Marshall’s before I left New York. Most days I spend at home, and wear an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt while I contemplate about possible blog topics or which baking recipe I should try next. And although I’m often bored because I’d rather be getting out of the house and working, I’m probably in a healthier state of mind than I ever was in New York.
So, my darling city. I’ll likely see you again, but I don’t expect that you’ll ever be that wondrous place that I experienced in my youth. It’ll never the same as it was. But you were a part of my life for six and a half years, and I’ll always love you for your affordable and reliable public transportation, the 24/7 accessibility to most anything one desires, and that you still openly embrace and welcome in outsiders from near and far. I envy those who have been able to make it work with you, and wish that I could have been one of them.
But in the end, it’s all OK. I think you got me to where I needed to be, and I’m going to be a better person because of it.
Typos and Quirks 