Tuesday, April 12, 2011
During my commute this morning, I ran into–figuratively!–two deer, the latter of which was headed straight for the side of my car, until it seemingly jumped over the trunk at the last moment. This brought the total deer encountered this month to three, not that I’m trying to set any records here, thank you very much. In fact, I’ve even started avoiding certain routes, because although the Saab is supposedly elk-proof, it’s a claim I’m happy to take at face value.
What really struck me was how, just three days ago, I was in a place completely devoid of deer: a whirlwind trip to Morningside Heights, right down the street from Harlem, for a wedding. If you think this is going to be a love note to New York, let me disabuse you of this theory immediately. It’s been years since I’ve been back to the city, and in the interim I had developed a patchwork recollection of why I’m always loathe to return. But to experience everything again firsthand, well, no patchwork recollection can hold a candle to that.
To be fair, it wasn’t just loathing. I was also more cognizant of why things are the way they are. I’ve been told on occasion that I display the New York neurosis, a kind of grim optimism, and I have a better appreciation for why this may be the case. All the pieces of the puzzle were there. The layer of smog above Long Island clearly visible during final descent. The filthy bathrooms at JFK. The worn infrastructure. The way both taxi drivers deftly wove through hair-raising traffic.
Everything fit together, in a way, and pointed toward the fact that New York is a contraption designed to contend with a dense mass of people. Traffic really isn’t so bad, then, because how else would millions of people filter through the thoroughfares every day? By the same token, you can’t really expect a public bathroom in an international hub airport to be remotely clean. The one piece that didn’t fit was cost of living, which was psychologically jarring. I’ve been spoiled by southern living, frankly. I mean, $16 for a plate of nachos? Now, my eyes may have deceived me, but I believe there was a generous layer of chile con fuck you slathered on top of it.