There’s a small part of me that’s drawn to New York City. A small part of me, left over from a childhood desire to live there, that wants to be a part of something so… epic. For that’s what New York is. It’s epic. “The center of the known universe” (TC), certainly the center of publishing, something that I could certainly see myself doing.
That small part of me wants to be able to say that I did it. That I was capable of living in New York, even if I don’t settle there for good. I need to know that I can make it on my own, and what better place to prove it than New York, the city of crime and atrocious prices, of struggle, of prosperity, and of poverty. If I can make it in New York, I can make it anywhere.
At the same time, I don’t want to live in New York. At all. Ever. I hate the cold of winter and the stifling, baking heat of summer. I hate the crowds and the anonymity. I would feel lost, like I could disappear into the cracks in the sidewalk at any moment, and not a soul would notice the change.
I need something to ground me, something that the city can’t offer me. I need nature. I need the ocean, if possible. The Park is wonderful, but I would need to see it often, in order to keep hold of my sanity, and I could certainly not afford to live near enough to satisfy. I need the ocean, I need sky, I need grass. Most of all, I need open roads. I need to be able to drive my car, not leave her stuck in some garage in the city, or worse, out on the streets where I would be constantly afraid of car jackers (it’s an irrational fear I have when I don’t see my car everyday, even in Williamsburg or Reston).
I need space, at the same time I need people, and civilization, and happenings, so I couldn’t live in the country or the city. The best that I think I can to do to satisfy both these sides of myself is a coastal city, where I can see the foreverness of the ocean, and feel the buzz of the city.
God only knows where I’ll end up. I just go where the wind takes me.