TenaCITY

I love New York.  If you’re like me, you know a lot of people there.  I have legions of relatives, former classmates, musician friends, and other acquaintances who call New York home.  Some of these people would never live anywhere else.  Many are involved with careers in business and finance, entertainment, fashion and the arts.  Some were born there.  Others were drawn to the city’s electricity and swallowed up by its endless opportunities.  I seems that once you have lived in New York City you can never return to your natural habitat.

I love New York.  Every few months I feel the need to visit that great city.  It is my version of race car driving, or taking a zero gravity flight.  I know in my heart that New York is not my ultimate destiny, yet for a couple of days each year I treat myself to a grand adventure in free fall.  I prepare to be overwhelmed, to place myself in sensory overload.   It is a place in which to get completely lost, to try unfamiliar foods, to see obscure exhibits of art or books, or to find wardrobe items that have never been seen in a mall at home. 

I love New York.  It is a place of anonymity, where the self-conscious become invisible.   A shrewd people-watcher can take stock of the measure of Man.  In its streets, the most successful and possessed professional shares a crosswalk with the world’s most downtrodden.  The barest whisper of a girl walks past a dangerous criminal.   Sitting on a corner, I have watched the entire world pass by, hearing every language and bearing witness to every walk of life—all in the span of time it takes to devour a hot pretzel. 

I love New York.  It is the face of our country to the rest of the world.  Through it, others see our freedom and our audacity.  We are admired, we are judged, we are scorned.  The people of New York take it on the chin for the rest of us.  We envy their rich lives.  We pity their vulnerability.  We mourn their losses.

I love New York.  I feel a strong connection to this larger than life Metropolis where I have never lived, but where all my interests are rooted.  I visit as a pilgrim, anxious to return to my favorite museums, shops,sights, and restaurants.   It is my favorite playground, igniting a joy that allows me to return home to live happily.  And richly.  And safely. 

I love New York.  Its hurricane-drenched aftermath weighs heavily on my heart and soul.  It is a martyred city that, having done so much for us, was made to bear our suffering, too.  Yet the surge that inconvenienced us paralyzes them.   And yet they endure, wearing their scars like a badge of honor.  They put on their suits and their walking shoes and hit the pavement, cranking up the engine slowly until it once again outpaces the rest of the world. 

I love New York.  I could hardly wait until this next weekend, when I had planned to meet my daughter in our favorite city.  I have not seen her since taking her to college in August.  I have not hugged her since that last moment before I drove away.  But New York is hurting.  The infrastructure is not up to its capacity, unable to handle those who make the city home.  There is not enough gas for the taxis or food for the masses.  We need to let them heal and fix and dry out and recover.  They are not up for playing the gracious host.

I love New York.  So I will stay at home.