That's the view from the roof of my new apartment. Pretty killer rooftop. Also made for this pretty killer sunburn I'm sporting, following my lovely 10-hour day up there on Sunday.
Fortunately or unfortunately, I am among the many who signed a lease in New York soon after a May college graduation. Thus, each summer, though I happily ring in another year gone by in the city that never sleeps, I find myself in murky territory, as I answer arguably the most important question in a New Yorker's life: Where should I live next? (More specific questions include, but are not limited to: What neighborhoods can I afford? Do I have to live with roommates? How much closet space do I really need? Will the divots in the floors from one too many stiletto heel result in the loss of my security deposit? How much will I actually compromise to live in this insane, ridiculous city?)________________________________________
A: "I remember the first time I felt trapped in NY. It was labor day weekend and everyone was leaving the city. I had no money and no where to go. All my friends down south were driving to the beach or the mountains or their parents house. I was trapped. On an Island. That had everything. I was on my lunch break from my miserable job in an un air conditioned brown stone in the west village and I was crying a little and I sat on the grass and people walked by juggling and walking on stilts and marijuana scent drifted over to me and I splurged on a $2 vitamin water. And I felt connected to all the people who had sat in that park before me. And I stopped crying. But it was the first time that I realized that NY had limits. That it couldn’t have everything. My family and friends weren’t there. There was no swim club or camping site. I was trapped on an island that had *almost* everything.
I have this theory that NY knows when you are mad at it and just does everything it can to make you love it. Like when I couldn’t afford to go home for homecoming and I decided I deserved a long lunch and go to Madison Square Park. And when I went it was the first day they were doing outdoor ice skating. And it was glorious. Oh NY- you know just how to get me.
I remember the weekend that I found myself alone in my apartment for the first time since I had moved in 6 weeks before. With four 22 year old girls with boyfriends and out of town guests and rotating couch surfers this was a rarity. I used to take personal calls on my cell phone in central park because it was the only place I could get privacy. It was mid afternoon after too many nights of drinking and partying and I had a little panic attack as I sat in that dark apt all by myself. It was the first time I left my mind slow down enough to really think about what I was doing and where I was. It was the first time I realized that this was not spring break, this was my life, and it was terrifying."
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Yours,
EL
p.s. The picture above is from my first New York apartment. My roommates lived in bunk beds. That's the compromise we made to live in the West Village. You do what you have to do.
p.p.s. If you want to read similar (though better edited) accounts, check out this amazing piece by Joan Didion, or this article from New York Magazine.
