Everyone who lives in New York City has those days where he or she wonders why in unholy fuck they would submit themselves to the rigors of living here. If you lived in a normal city, you could drive to a mall, you could keep an umbrella in the car at all times instead of checking weather.com every morning to see if you need one, you wouldn't have to get poked in the eyeball with someone else's umbrella as you try to get to your office, your sunlight isn't blocked by 50-story buildings, checks wouldn't take seven business days to clear, a fire composed of burning sludge and rats on the subway tracks doesn't mean you get to work an hour and a half late, you could have a house and a backyard, and it wouldn't take half of your income to pay your rent. You think about these things, and you scowl at passersby and earn your reputation as an unpleasant New Yorker. You stomp up the stairs to your walkup apartment carrying fifty pounds of groceries that you've carried all the way from the store fifteen blocks away, and you dream of an easier life. A simpler life.
The beauty of living in the city is that it always finds a way to make you remember why it's worth it. Shaking hands with a cab driver at 3 in the morning after a discussion of the hookers in Hamburg. Reading the paper over someone's shoulder on the train. A neighborhood deli where they always know what you want in the morning. Never having to worry about getting a DUI. Thursday night spent at a fashion show for superheroes modeled by the correspondents from The Daily Show, followed by a superb dinner of wine and duck and espresso with fantastic new friends. Friday night sitting on the floor of a roller rink cheering for the championship match of an all-girl's roller derby team. Drop-off laundry. The perpetual hope of finding the perfect apartment someday. With no broker's fee. Knowing that at any time of the day or night, you can find somewhere to be or somewhere to go that will make a really fantastic fucking story.
That's why we've moved here. Millions of people come to New York to join in a shared experience. The only thing I can compare it to is what it's like to be gay; every gay person I know has a coming out story. No matter how different the guys in a random bar are, there's always that through-line. You can always talk to them about what happened when you came out to your friends, or your parents. Straight people might know what you've been through on some level, but they'll never really get what it feels like. It's the same way with living in the city. Everyone has a story about moving here: what brought them, how long they've been here, what they love to do, what they want to do, where the best bar is for a Friday night that nobody else knows about, what the best train is to get somewhere. If you live here, you know what I mean. You always feel like you're part of a bigger story. It's a collective adventure, a shared vocabulary, and no matter how sad you are or how broke you are or how pissed off you are, there's always someone who'll understand, and probably has an anecdote to do you one better.
It's fucking rough to live in New York City. But she always finds a way to remind you why you love her, and why you'll never leave.