I now live in a sitcom neighborhood.
About 80 percent of the people I know in New York live here. It’s ridiculously idyllic. Across the street from me, I have three coffee places, including a Starbucks, a bodega and a bunch of cute little shops where party dresses may be purchased. I had my birthday not so long ago: I bought my dress four blocks away.
The other day, I was walking to the hardware store to buy more shelves, and I ran into a friend standing outside the laundromat. We had a brief chat: He recommended that I buy some lavender to put in my window, to keep out the mosquitoes from the park. Then we discussed upcoming parties and whatnot, and I went on my way, tripping merrily over toddlers and couples the rest of the block.
It’s so quiet at night, the bus sounds out of place when it roars by. Sometimes you can hear the streetlights burning.
If you ever would’ve told me, when I moved to New York, that this was what I wanted, I would’ve said you were crazy.
Last weekend, I went to a roof party in the LES — my old stomping grounds, not three blocks from my old apartment. It was nice to sit in a hammock and look at the stars. I could see five of them, and my friend Madcat pointed out that at least one was a planet. And then I hopped in a cab and went home.
Sometimes on the train, I look up from my book just as the F goes above ground and I see Manhattan in the distance and all the roof-tops below. Some people have gardens. Some of the buildings are factories that look totally abandoned, even though I’m sure they’re million-billion-quintillion dollar apartments. There’s that feeling that I’ve left where I work and am going someplace else. I never really understood commuters before.
The air is a little fresher out here, and there’s still plenty to do. I’m glad I started off in Manhattan, but it occurs to me lately that there are a lot of places in the world to be happy.