"I never had intimate friends, and the few who came close are in New York. By which I mean they're dead,
because that's where I suppose condemned souls go in order not to endure the truth of their past lives."
-- Gabriel Garcia Marquez,
Memories of My Melancholy Whores
2005, p.15
Perhaps a bit melodramatic for my actual mood, but let me say that I do relate to it on some level. Having recently returned to New York from a visit home to suburbia, Southern California, I can say that I've never felt more at home and myself than while lounging in my upper west side apartment listening to NPR on a Sunday morning-- knowing that brunch (and NYE activities that are made that much more exciting merely by virtue of taking place in this city) are not too far.
While I remember having a relatively charmed existence throughout my childhood and adolescence, I have for some time had vague and specific dislikes for it, so I suppose I have in some sense fled to NYC so as not to endure the truth of my past life. Perhaps it's because everytime I fly home the plane is full of smug middle-aged Republicans with crying children and over-maintained nitwit adolescents who will probably end up being Republicans. To be fair, there is usually one lonely punk kid silently screaming for help.
In contrast, the last leg home to NYC boasts a more eclectic roster. Other than the requisite tourists, you can make educated guesses about which NYC neighborhood any given passenger is from based on their demeanor, clothing, and accessories. It's a fun game.
(Unfortunately, I was sitting next to a family of 5 from Orange County who was going to NYC for the very first time, and who could not stop talking. And the head of which, incidentally, kept looking over Pennsylvania and it's sparse lights, and saying, oh look, THERE'S NEW YORK CITY. god.)
In any case, I'm back in New York, on the upper west side, and far enough from any real tourist swarms.
signed,
a happily 'condemned' soul in new york
