New York, I love your citizens. I love the deli people who follow my
breakfast whims. Every few months those
whims change. Sometimes it’s an egg
sandwich. Sometimes I’ll go through a
bagel streak. These days, it’s just my
morning coffee, small, light, no sugar.
But after a few days the deli people have got it down, and they serve it
up as soon as I walk in, to the occasional dismay of the other customers ahead
of me in line. They don’t understand;
they don’t have the same unspoken connection to the deli people that I do. They can only dream. We may be a surly bunch on occasion, but damn
if we don’t take care of our locals. I
can’t help but think that only in New York would the wine store guy up the
street actually tell me to call at closing time if I “need a few more minutes”. Yup.
The wine store will hold the show for me.
New York, I love your artists. Through connections and blatant pandering I
have been involved in an amazing show for the past month. Look, I’m not going to lie: it is a weird,
specific aesthetic that gets me going.
It’s rare that I meet someone who says, “Oh yeah, I totally dig Weimar
cabaret. In fact, I just wrote one that pretty
much fits in with all that you think about religion and politics. Why don’t you perform in it? Also, two of your best friends are involved
in it too. So, you know, come on down to
Brooklyn.” Yeah, I don’t get that a lot. But in New York I do. It’s probably going to have to sustain me for
the next year. What can I say? Ich liebe The Brick.
New York, I love your food.
You do sustain me. In fact, you
might be specifically calibrated to my personal brand of gluttony. In one week I dined on world-changing pizza, soft
shell crab in green curry (yes! More please!) , and fried chicken with a side
of FRIED KALE. Yes. You read that right. Fried kale.
It was delicious, and I have no regrets.
None. Admittedly, I have been in
dumpling withdrawal, but that’s my own fault.
I could get my albino ass down to Chinatown, I just haven’t managed to
do it because I’m a lazy over-booker who’s looking ahead to a year of cheap
nightmarket delights. Is that considered
taking the easy way out?
New York, I love the family you’ve given me, blood-related
or otherwise. How have I managed to
stumble across so many people who are willing to look past my absurdity? I guess I credit you. And here I lose words. How do I describe the unbelievable people in
my life? How do I explain the endlessly
engaging conversations? How do I
describe the wine-fueled nights of dancing?
Can I really do justice to Girls’ Night?
What words can I use to explain finally feeling safe?
While in Taipei I
took part in the traditional “Chinese Valentine’s Day Temple Visit”. It involves an elaborate ritual of incense,
candy, “ghost” money, tea, and prayer, and it is ultimately supposed to connect
you with your soul mate. I don’t really
go in for prayers or soul mates, but I’m certainly not going to turn down a
chance to participate in a local tradition.
And what the hell, it’s not like it’s going to hurt (furthermore, I got
some neat souvenirs out of it. And tea. Which you aren’t supposed to blow on.) During this process you pray to about 50
million gods. And I still don’t know
what all of those gods do. The only one
that stuck in my mind was the City God.
If I remember correctly, he was our first prayer stop, and he is the one
mainly in charge of helping us find the people we’re supposed to be with; the
people who will enrich our lives.
Perhaps you’ve already guessed that I adored this idea. The essence of the metropolis gets to decide
who we need to meet, and then works it’s magic to make that happen? Sign me up.
I believe in the power of the city.
I certainly believe in the power of New York. And I hope that it won’t forget me while I’m
gone, that it will manage to keep me in mind as it charts the courses of all
the broke, desperate, amazing people who find their only home here.
New York, I love you.
You are my home, you are my family.
I’ll be back all too soon. And I
will still hate your public transportation system, but that’s as it should it
be. There has to be some imperfection,
somewhere. It can’t all be roses,
unicorns and rainbows. This isn’t a
love story. This is real life.
