Not a New Yorker

It has been said, that if you move to New York, and after two years, you still like it, you’re a New Yorker. I made it through three years for a bachelor’s degree, and nearly ground my teeth to the roots, when I was not shivering. I ran  for the exit as soon as I could after graduation. It was difficult to force myself to leave by mundane means after turning the keys to my apartment over to the super; I ran because I was not permitted to fly.

Admittedly, NYC has many things to recommend it, from the Met to the Mets, but after my first two quarters at the institute, I didn't have time for any of that. I was working my tail off trying to find a position at a fashion house in a warmer climate with a better cost of living rate.

I’m not saying I never went back. Three years thawing out in a suitable climate, and I was able to return for short periods. There’s fashion weeks, of course; sometime around the week the fall lines are debuted, there’s the lunar new year festival in Chinatown and the spring lines are followed by the opening of opera season. Both of them have enough of a time cushion for me to go over the final touches for my shows here.

There’s also the appeal of living in the heart of a long-established artistic community. Once upon a time, it was the only place to be if you were in musical theater, a serious stage actor, or even an American fashion designer. Thankfully, that is no longer the case.

To be honest, I like it much better as a place to visit. The museums, intellectual salons, and performance halls have a frenetic energy unlike any other city, precariously balanced with a sense of gravitas and an eye for style. Kind of like visiting that one really wild aunt; very exciting in short bursts, but living with her for more than a week or two at a time is really exhausting. I still have friends in the city and some of the boroughs, and the city suits them.

Me, I like the vibe of the city here, where there’s a relaxed pace to even the busy times. The fact that I can get a Mulberry Bend ropa vieja pizza without more than a three-minute argument about the sanctity of the slice is just the cherry on top. So what if I cheer for the both sides when the Marlins and the Mets meet up? I’m not the only one in the neighborhood that does it.

See, that’s the one thing I missed about New York when I first moved down here, the people that made up the neighborhood I lived in while I was in school. It took some searching, but I eventually found a pocket of multiple international flavors; third and fourth generation Americans with roots in Cuba, Spain, Italy and lots of other places around the Mediterranean, families that had settled in together, and yes, it’s as crazy as it sounds.

Sure, you have to specify if you want espresso or cafecito with your pastelito or baklava at the cafe, because everybody likes to mix things up every now and then. There are amazing restaurants in every block, and the competitive gardening means all of the yards are a riot of color. Every street has at least two grandmothers who are watching out for the children they know, and yes they know your mother, so behave. There is a festival just about every weekend, and the entire neighborhood gets invited to the local quinceanera and mitzvah celebrations.  

So what if it’s not how they do things in New York. It’s what works for us.