People fall in love with New York City all the time. There are tourists who gaze at the Empire State Building in awe, filling their heads with memories of the city of dreams, and there are the locals who could not live elsewhere given the attachment they have nurtured for the looming concrete structures and charming farmer’s markets that surprisingly become good friends on Sunday afternoons.
The City and I, however, have not fallen in love yet. We haven’t reached the point where we can say, “We’re going steady.” I don’t think it’s just the time. I’ve heard people talk about how it was love at first sight for them and the city. And, besides, I have spent about 3 months in the city living the typical poorly paid paralegal intern life, struggling from one metro station to another, hoping my meager paycheck will support both breakfast and Saturday night debaucheries. Somehow, I haven’t gotten to wanting to stay in the city forever; I haven’t felt like I could live here and become Carrie Bradshaw or some other glamorous being who embodies and loves the city. Instead, I have become the cynical woman who loves the subway for its efficiency but suspects the roof will collapse under the weight of running trains and crush her to death.
My sister didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t love the city just yet. “What do you mean you don’t love the city just yet? You’re living my college dream, woman. Get a good apartment so I can visit.” Unwittingly, my sister pointed out one of the big problems I have had with the city: finding an apartment. It isn’t just that there is a dearth of affordable housing in good neighborhoods, anyone can live with that fact. It is the process of finding housing and the people you must put up with in the process of getting your application approved. I am tired of brokers who say they don’t charge a fee or are showing me no fee apartments only to have them try to get me to sign over my life savings to them. I am also tired of people showing me apartments that are ready for immediate move in and then later finding out from the management that there is at least a one month wait. The whole point is not the apartments themselves. The point is the lengths people will go to in order to make a buck off of you. Everyone, from the guy who tried to snatch my purse at the subway stop to the broker who tried to get me to pay for services that I never used, is out to dupe you. This piece is not about the nuances of stereotyping so I am not going to make exceptions. Everyone knows that there are kind souls who don’t want your money; no point bringing it up. So, how do I get a good apartment, as my sister asked me to? Great question.
And then there are the catcallers, the ‘eve teasers’ as we say in my part of the world. They are everywhere: subway stops, below my sublet apartment, in front of the grocery story, outside Starbucks, on the stairs of the New York Public Library, on the cross road between 50th and 2nd. Whoever said it was only the third world that enjoyed the creativity with which men street harass women, was terribly mistaken. This first world city, and an iconic one at that, has more than its fair share of misogynistic pricks who throw around “oh yeah dance for me my Bollywood actress” and “Oh hi you pretty Indian girl” and “hey you come here baby”. It is a little different from the secluded New England world my college was in. There, I could yell “Fuck you” and walk away, unafraid of the consequences of my expletive laden retort. Here, I just want to make sure I get home safe, unscathed physically because mentally, that prick’s already unsettled me.
I guess once I settle into the city and toughen up, I may just fall for it. It will take standing up to street harassers and learning the subway system.
The City and I, however, have not fallen in love yet. We haven’t reached the point where we can say, “We’re going steady.” I don’t think it’s just the time. I’ve heard people talk about how it was love at first sight for them and the city. And, besides, I have spent about 3 months in the city living the typical poorly paid paralegal intern life, struggling from one metro station to another, hoping my meager paycheck will support both breakfast and Saturday night debaucheries. Somehow, I haven’t gotten to wanting to stay in the city forever; I haven’t felt like I could live here and become Carrie Bradshaw or some other glamorous being who embodies and loves the city. Instead, I have become the cynical woman who loves the subway for its efficiency but suspects the roof will collapse under the weight of running trains and crush her to death.
My sister didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t love the city just yet. “What do you mean you don’t love the city just yet? You’re living my college dream, woman. Get a good apartment so I can visit.” Unwittingly, my sister pointed out one of the big problems I have had with the city: finding an apartment. It isn’t just that there is a dearth of affordable housing in good neighborhoods, anyone can live with that fact. It is the process of finding housing and the people you must put up with in the process of getting your application approved. I am tired of brokers who say they don’t charge a fee or are showing me no fee apartments only to have them try to get me to sign over my life savings to them. I am also tired of people showing me apartments that are ready for immediate move in and then later finding out from the management that there is at least a one month wait. The whole point is not the apartments themselves. The point is the lengths people will go to in order to make a buck off of you. Everyone, from the guy who tried to snatch my purse at the subway stop to the broker who tried to get me to pay for services that I never used, is out to dupe you. This piece is not about the nuances of stereotyping so I am not going to make exceptions. Everyone knows that there are kind souls who don’t want your money; no point bringing it up. So, how do I get a good apartment, as my sister asked me to? Great question.
And then there are the catcallers, the ‘eve teasers’ as we say in my part of the world. They are everywhere: subway stops, below my sublet apartment, in front of the grocery story, outside Starbucks, on the stairs of the New York Public Library, on the cross road between 50th and 2nd. Whoever said it was only the third world that enjoyed the creativity with which men street harass women, was terribly mistaken. This first world city, and an iconic one at that, has more than its fair share of misogynistic pricks who throw around “oh yeah dance for me my Bollywood actress” and “Oh hi you pretty Indian girl” and “hey you come here baby”. It is a little different from the secluded New England world my college was in. There, I could yell “Fuck you” and walk away, unafraid of the consequences of my expletive laden retort. Here, I just want to make sure I get home safe, unscathed physically because mentally, that prick’s already unsettled me.
I guess once I settle into the city and toughen up, I may just fall for it. It will take standing up to street harassers and learning the subway system.
