MY HOME, NEW YORK CITY

It’s cliche, but it’s true: there really is no place quite like New York City. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, New York is a way of life. It’s a love/hate relationship, but it truly is a magical place.

I recently came across a quote by the late David Carr, an American author, which resonated so deeply within me:

“The trick of enjoying New York is not to be so busy grinding your way to the center of the earth that you fail to notice the sparkle of the place”.

New York was never a thought-out plan for me. It was a spontaneous decision made one weekend, four years ago, and I just so happened to follow through with it. It’s still so incredible to me when I meet someone that is from the city, because the majority of the population here are not. Either way, all will agree with me that there is always something to do and something going on, that one cannot ever be bored [even if you decide to stay in on a Saturday night because you are avoiding the polar vortex, like I currently am].

Jazz after midnight on a Tuesday? Hell, yes.

Boozy-brunch-turned-girls-night-out on a Saturday, followed by hungover Soul Cycle sessions on Sunday morning (read: early-ish afternoon)? Definitely.

Date night every night of the week? Who’s stopping you?

Fro-Yo run during the -16 Celcius winter weather? I mean, why not?

Everything is so accessible that, for people like myself who enjoy the concept of convenience, it can be somewhat paradoxical. Over the interval of three full years here,  I came up with a theory that everyone here develops Peter Pan syndrome and New York is just a big playground. People laugh when I explain, but I stand by my notion. I moved to New York by myself when I was 22, but before I moved here, I had always thought 30 would be the age where one is peaking in their career, and so subsequently, a decent age to settle down – get married, buy the house with the white shutters and picket fence, have the first of four children, etc.

FACT: Most 30 year olds here are still figuring out their lives [and that’s totally acceptable]. In New York, you don’t have to do your own laundry if you don’t want to; don’t have time to; or don’t know how to. You even have the option of dropping it off, or having someone pick up and deliver to and from your apartment. The same goes for cooking. Nobody needs to know how to cook because you can literally order anything you want, to be delivered to your front door, at the touch of a button on everyone’s favourite app Seamless. Do not even get me started on the dating scene here. As a rule of thumb, I usually subtract 10 years from a male’s age, to figure his maturity level. It does make sense though… why else were the ladies off SATC all still uncommitted at 40?

Regardless, New York is a world of its own, and it takes a certain character of thick skin and perseverance to be able to succeed in such a world. As I said, it’s a love/hate relationship. While New York is certainly not the final curtain for me, although – who knows – it may well be [as I type this, I have just received a message from one of my best friends asking me when I am moving to London], the longer I’ve lived here, the more I fall in love with the city, every day. With that, I’ll leave off with a beautiful quote someone once told me, from E. B. White’s “Here Is New York“.

“There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter — the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. 

Of these three trembling cities the greatest is the last–the city of final destination, the city that is a goal. It is this third city that accounts for New York’s high-strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion.”

Passion. Sparkle. Magic. It’s all here in my home, New York City.

For the record, I do my own laundry and I also cook my own meals (sometimes).

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