I've lived in PA 2x longer than I have lived in NYC!
There are some things I really miss about living in NYC. A lot of it I don't miss. I hated the smell of piss. The smell of exhaust. The constantly aware feeling of people telling you a sob story and then dry begging. The competition for..well..everything. Tunnel traffic. Yeah, I was actually crazy enough to drive on a regular basis. Even my ex Army hubby won't do that.
I miss my bagels and lox and schmear and fuzzy sock mornings rolled up in a quilt near a crisp NYTimes. When it was still a good paper...
I miss the NY Post, on the train unwinding on route to visit my folks and having my backpack as a pillow.
I miss getting down and fonky miss honky in some dank underground disco with Ms. Bunnie, or Miss Steak. And enjoying a beer, knowing the cabs were waiting outside even at 3am. Unless I was headed to the Kiev for some kick axx pierogies and coffee.
I miss Chinese food, Indian food, Thai food, without having to worry about my waistline. Allergies. Kids. Etc.
Need a quart of milk? Slap on the bunny slippers and bop 10 feet to your left after you say hi to the quizzical doorman. In the mood for some Jazz? 20 clubs within 5 block radius. Plus Washington Square Park. And no, thank you, you can sell your sens and smoke and buddha for another gal...
Italian grandmas on lawnchairs outside as the precursor to CCTV. Or hanging out by windowsills. Watching dealers, breakups, old hippies...Old men feeding the pigeons.
Spanish speaking people mixing it up with Patois slinging Jamaicans whooping it up with Arabs and their halal food carts. As I gently pass by on a hot summer evening's stroll around 28th street. No one cares. Cuz we are all reeking and sweating and hungry and happy.
My meat packing district dive ( h and h!) with the bras thrown on the ceiling, and motorcycles parked outside. Or the restaurant that was affordable, excellent, and never judged. Run by a crazy French guy as I recall. (Florian)
The pros selling whatever floats your boat by the West side highway, before the high line was the High Line. And the John's idling in the cars exhaust smoke disappearing in the air as I wondered where in CT they hailed from and did his wife know?
The mangy hotdog carts full of unknown tasty sustenance such as ye olde boiled something in a bun and knish. And an orange Fanta for $3.00.
The coffee cart just outside Penn station. Filled with pastries of unknown origin and the flies that loved them so. And great, perfect coffee, served in a faux Greek cup saying Happy To Serve You. Blue and white. Always.
The show people, those intrepid souls making and selling fabulous work on Columbus and 80th. No, the flea market is 77th. No, you can't use my bench to change your baby. Please remove your dog before it pees....on my..tent leg...ugh. No, you can't sneak your pipes onto my table and slip me a hundred so I can sell them for you. But after slogging through it all, I have enough to cover my rent for 2 months....
Perhaps I get a bit misty eyed, but I am certainly glad I was there, even if I had to leave. It was a very special time indeed.