Leaving New York (Never Easy)

(My apologies to REM for stealing their lyrics.)

The other day, I had to drive down to “The Gold Coast.” For those of you unfamiliar with Connecticut, this is the southwestern coastal area of the state, which borders on the Long Island Sound. It stretches from Greenwich up to Fairfield (pretending Bridgeport, which borders on Fairfield, a pretty rough city hit hard in the late eighties and early nineties, doesn’t exist). People have their 2nd (or maybe even 3rd) multi-million dollar homes along The Gold Coast, the first being a penthouse view of Central Park. This in no way guarantees they have an ounce of taste. If you’re having trouble picturing such a place, just think “Stepford Wives,” whose fictional town was based on Westport, CT.

Westport is one of the worst. Imagine “normal-sized” four-or-five-bedroom homes on lots that are probably about a quarter of an acre in size. Imagine these somewhat-modest-sized houses set back from the road on pretty, tree-lined streets. Now imagine people buying these homes, tearing them down, and building Buckingham Palaces on them, leaving all of a 2-sq.-in. piece of lawn on which their children can play, and you’ll get the idea. (Is anyone else out there like me? Do you see these McPalaces and think, “Ohmigod! All that house to take care of!” And “Merry Maids” visiting once a week does not an Upstairs, Downstairs make.)

Anyway, this little excursion made me think, “I’m not gonna miss Connecticut so much after all. Seeing all the “Mr.-and-Ms. Importants,” power suits on and briefcases in hands, flipping open their cell phones to impart the life-and-death news of “I just got off the train,” as they raced from the commuter train to their parked cars, reinforced this realization. But then I remembered: they were all coming from New York. When Bob was in school, and we had the apartment in New York, I sometimes used to do that, too (“reverse commute” it’s called when you go from New York to Connecticut to work). And then, despite the fact I knew so many of these obnoxious people have their other multi-million dollar home in New York, my thought was, “I’m SO going to miss New York!” (Of course, a couple of days later, when I was driving in Midtown Manhattan -- something I enjoy doing about as much as most people enjoy un-anaesthetized leg amputations -- I wasn’t thinking this quite as enthusiastically, but I was still thinking it.)

Because, in New York, you don’t have to hang out with these obnoxious people. In fact, a few weeks back, I was coming up from the Subway station at 125th St. and Broadway, and there was a young couple on the escalator behind me – obviously tourists – and the woman said to the man, “You know, everyone always says New York is such an unfriendly city, but I don’t think it’s unfriendly at all. Everyone’s been so nice.” Because I’m too shy, I didn’t, but I was sorely tempted to turn around and say, “That’s because all the unfriendly people moved out to Connecticut during the Reagan years and left all the nice people behind.” I actually remember saying the exact same thing about New York the first time I visited in 1985, and my feelings have only been confirmed for me during the twenty years I’ve become more and more familiar with the grand city. I'm glad to hear other visitors still draw the same conclusion.

You can do all kinds of things in New York and not once run into anyone wearing a power suit. You and a group of friends can decide you’re going to spend a Saturday evening walking across The Brooklyn Bridge and get ice cream on the other side before walking back. You can take a book up to The Cloisters and Fort Tryon Park and spend a lazy Sunday afternoon among all those fabulous imported ruins and artifacts, with a million interesting tourists, whom you can choose to either engage or ignore, depending on your preference. On a warm summer day, you can visit the dog run at Riverside Park, petting everything from Miniature Dobermans to Wolf Hounds, then go across the path to buy a burger and a beer and watch the “volleyballers” and sunbathers at “Hudson Beach,” the sandy block on the banks of the Hudson River.

You can see just about any play your heart desires right now (if you have the money). Ditto movies on the big screen. If you’re in the mood for art, you’ve got the Met. Modern art? You’ve got the MOMA. Science? Try the Museum of Natural History. Want to ride a roller coaster? Go down to Coney Island (although, unfortunately, not for long. Coney Island is soon to be no more, and I’m sure that area will become a haven for power suits. The roller coaster will still be there, though, and the suits will be barely noticeable from its great heights).

The libraries are probably some of the best in the country. And despite the rise and fall of the super bookstores, you can still find some wonderful little independent ones tucked away on side streets, near cafes (or, if you’re really lucky, The Hungarian Pastry Shop, which is conveniently located right near Labyrinth Books), where you can buy your books and then go get some tea or coffee (or fabulous pastries). And, of course, there’s The Strand, rivaled only by Portland, OR’s Powells (actually, Powells is probably better, but The Strand is a very close second).

And don’t let everyone fool you. Yes, NYC can be very, very expensive. But you can do some absolutely wonderful things for next-to-nothing. Hang out in Washington Square Park for a day, for instance, and buy your lunch from vendors. Walk up and down 5th Avenue at Christmas (leaving all your cash and credit cards at home), just enjoying the shop windows, and don’t forget to stop to admire the tree and the ice skaters at Rockefeller Center. Go down to Ground Zero and be touched in a way you never imagined. Seek out the places where all the famous people lived: The Dakota, Edgar Alan Poe’s, Theodore Roosevelt’s, etc. No one will question you if you lurk outside these places trying to envision what they were like when these people were alive – what they saw, how this contributed to what they did. Stroll anywhere along the Hudson, any time of year (but I’d most highly recommend late winter when the ice flows form as the ice cracks and breaks) and lose yourself in this most magnificent river. I have no idea why this particular body of water is so, so hypnotic, but I promise you, it is.

Why do I feel like I’m losing a friend? We won’t really be that far from New York. We can easily be in midtown Manhattan by train within two and a half hours. That’s nothing. It’s not like we’re moving to Seattle. But why do I have this gnawing feeling that we’re always going to be too busy, that we’ll never make it back?