Six Months In New York
and six things I've learned
Six months in New York- wonderfully short, painfully long, absurdly beautiful. A feast for the senses. Bursting with color, brimming with possibility, and, fuck, okay, yes, I WILL hop the turnstile and yes, alright, I did get kind of stuck. But I’ll shimmy out. And then, I will come back even stronger than you remember me.
Here are six lessons learned from a city that winks just as much as it yells.
The Most Beautiful People In The World
If you’re from San Francisco, the first thing you might notice as you step out of the subway is that people here are stunning. There is a very sharp, very acute shock that goes through your body for the first few weeks that you are here. My god, so THIS is where all the hot people were hiding, you think.
San Francisco is full of smart, dedicated, and ambitious folks. It’s just a shame that most of the eligible dating pool is more interested in funding a Series D than being fine as hell. Seems like the only thing they haven’t disrupted is how to have a shirt properly drape on their body!
One of the sexiest things someone can do is take care of themselves sartorially- but even without the fashion, the people in New York simply look more striking. There’s a range too, and depending on the neighborhood, you can find people who look like high fashion models, or you can run into folks that look like they belong in Town&Country magazine.
On my weekly visit to McNally Jackson, in Seaport, I see a group of finance bros who look as if they are sculpted from marble, as if the edges of their being were thought up by Michelangelo himself. I don’t play for that team, but hey, I can appreciate a great jawline!
Later that day, on Orchard Street, sitting outside at a Korean cocktail bar, the table behind us gives a shout. Hey! What are you drinking! They ask. I turn around, and lose full motor control. Mouth agape, responding with a sound that has never been uttered in the history of time, before or since. Something that sounds like ‘aaaahyeeep’. I am stunned as a group of goth-adjacent women all stare at me. I immediately gather myself and blurt out ‘this is korean pear cocktail.’ They laugh, I think, because I am but a man, and they gorgeous dark angels sent to sow chaos into my life. They remind me of The Hex Girls from Scooby-Doo, and, as someone who is missing the part of their brain that processes shame, that is exactly what I tell them after a bit of back and forth. We all share a laugh at that. You look like you work at a museum! One of them says, firing back. Everyone laughed way more at that then they did at my Hex Girls comment.
I guess the moral of the story is, never wear tweed in the Lower East Side.
Seasons Are Real
At the end of our 4 week check-in, my manager snuck in one last comment- oh, and you have a winter coat right? I laughed, the way you laugh at a question you don’t really understand. I’ve got my Calvin Klein puffer! I know how to layer! It’s rated to 30 degrees! That should be good enough right? My family is from the Soviet Union! We’re built to withstand the cold. (And also to bottle our emotions.) There should be no force, nature or otherwise, that could possibly affect me to the point where I would have to buy a ridiculous, oversized, comically expensive winter coat.
My first week of December, I buy a ridiculous, oversized, comically expensive winter coat. It is from The North Face. It is in a color that I can only describe as ‘dijon mustard.’ When I wear it with my favorite pants, a pair of brown Dickies, I look like a walking bowl of diarrhea. I am uncomfortable both in body and spirit.
I return the jacket. I go to Soho to see if there’s anything else, anything at all. I am transfixed by a handwoven overcoat made by old women in Donegal. It is $848 before tax. I think about how money isn’t real. I think about how my parents fought tooth and nail so I could purchase things like this and it wouldn’t send my entire life into a biblical death spiral. I do not purchase the jacket.
Three weeks later, after shivering everywhere I go, I decide enough is enough. I get the very same jacket from The North Face, but this time, in black, heavily discounted from cashing in all my member points. It looks good with everything. It weirdly compliments my top heavy build. Thank you REI. You have saved me once again, this time, three thousand miles away.
You’re Not Gonna Get It Right Away
Or maybe you will…but not really. You might be entranced by the subway or the collective, bug-like organism that is people clocking out at and crossing Columbus Circle. You might be impressed that you can Venmo a stranger for a bag of hot nuts. (I always get the mix, almonds for protein, and cashews for flavor.) You could very well be blown away by the skyscrapers, monuments, and ornament that envelop this city. But you probably aren’t really going to get any of it.
Even six months in, I understand why I’m here, but I don’t always get it, if that makes any sense. The magic of New York (and there is a magic, albeit probably some insane, dark arts shit) reveals itself slowly. The true beauty of New York is intoxicating, but it might take a while. It shows itself in moments you don’t really see coming.
It’s watching the most beautiful sunset of your life with a Balkan guy you hired to move some shelves, while both of you scream from the back of a yellow cab.
It’s hearing a Rhodes scholar discuss the future of AI and the American Left after getting fully drenched in the interactive art exhibit three doors down.
It’s running into a long-lost friend from high school at a dive bar in Williamsburg and spitting out your Jeppson's Malört.
The crux is that adjusting to a place takes time, and understanding it on a level that’s higher than ‘here’s my laundromat, here’s my gym’ is crucial. Let a place show you why you’re here. You’re not gonna get it right away, anyway.
More Than Anywhere Else, You Really Can Just Go And Do It
A friend had just cancelled on me. I was a bit sad about it- I was looking forward to putting back a Guinness or three, chopping it up and half watching the Knicks game.
Then, I remembered…. I live in New York. I can go out and get into just about anything I wanted to. The night wasn’t over just because this guy thought he got food poisoning! Not for me, anyway.
I could do anything. I could watch some French New Wave cinema at the Metrograph a few blocks away. I could wander over to the basketball courts and play a couple rounds of pickup, only 10 minutes away. I could go explore the Met, walk the Highline, row a boat through Central Park, catch a show at Basement, or stuff my face at Papaya King. If I really wanted, I could do all of those in a day.
(It would be a day of pure insanity, but hey, that’s what the weekend is for!)
There is an endless stream of what and where in New York City. It feels, more than anywhere else, that one can really go and just…. do it.
No One Is Nice. But Most People Are Kind
The J Train screeches to an eerie halt. Across from me, a senior is slowly swaying a stroller back and forth. She is talking in Spanish on the phone, loud enough so that I could understand she’s talking about her day, but quiet enough to not wake up the sleeping babe. To my left, a girl with gas station sunglasses, black thigh-high boots, a camo tee, and a hat that says ‘GOD’S FAVORITE’ is texting her friend with autocorrect turned off.
“willzz probably be late lol” she fires off. Most likely to a industrial warehouse rave or ketamine open mic, I assume.
“sitting next to this guy he smells like Jack lmaoooooo” she quickly types, then sends. I don’t know who Jack is, but it gave me pause to know another man wears what I thought was a pretty niche cologne from D.S. & Durga. (Is anything niche in New York? Have I ever had an original experience?)
We all get off at this stop, and the older woman straddles in front of us, then stops at the top of the stairs, sheepishly looking at me and this possible Boiler Room DJ. Without thinking, me and the younger woman grab the stroller, one on each side, and bring it down 3 flights of stairs. We are silent as we do this.
At the bottom of the stairs, which most people would just call the street, the woman takes back her stroller, and the three of us all begin walking in separate directions. Not one of us says a thing- the senior did not say thank you, I did not say have a nice day. The younger woman did not tell us to check out her mix on soundcloud. We all just did the decent thing, and then went back to our lives. No one here is that nice, but maybe more importantly, it seems like most people in New York are kind.
The Most Important Lesson of All
When you go into the bodega and get a sausage egg and cheese, make sure that you are getting a PATTY sausage, and not the traditional one that they cut in half. Texturally, it’s a much more enjoyable experience.
Here’s to six months in New York.
And here’s to the next six, with whatever they may bring!
A special thank you to everyone who has made my time here already quite special.
“wonderfully short, painfully long” 🤌🏼
waiting for 1 year and sweaty sweaty subways