There’s definitely something wrong with me, because I feel better in New York.
Everyone — people who live here, people who’ve never even been here, people who got their idea of New York by watching “Friends” — will tell you that New York is no one’s idea of a relaxing good time. However, I’ve noticed something on my last couple trips home from other parts of the world: I start to relax the instant I see the lights of the city come up in the airplane window, or the institutional brick of Co-op City creep into my view from the train.
My theory is that the hecticness of New York appeals to my neurotic nature. Whatever the reason, it’s good to be home. Even if I am convinced that the Giant Roach of Sumatra is not foiled by caulking, but merely waiting patiently for me to leave my apartment. I’m totally sure that as soon as I shut off the lights, he creeps out and climbs all over my dishes and knives and coffee pot and sponges and dish-drainer and antibacterial soap and so on. He’s just gotten smart, y’see.