What Living in New York Teaches You About Love
Unless you’re one of the blessed few born and/or raised in New York City, you have probably been faced with the existential question: When do you become a real New Yorker? The qualifications vary depending on whom you ask. Some say it’s after you’ve lived here for 10 years. Some say it’s when you’ve survived a natural disaster and/or terrorist attack (a bleak reminder of the times we live in). Others will remark that it’s a buildup of experiences: crying in public, overcoming a rodent and/or roach problem in your apartment, learning from experience never to get on an empty subway car during rush hour, or having a memory for every city block in your neighborhood. But honestly, the fastest way to get labeled a real New Yorker is probably to have that same conversation with someone who has been in the city for less time than you have. For me, that was nine years in.
“I’m thinking about moving here,” a girl I had just met said to me one evening. “Should I do it?”
I paused, assessing how honest to be with this total stranger on her deeply personal life decision. “Do you want to do it?” I asked.
“I’m on the fence,” she shrugged.
“Then don’t,” I answered. “Don’t move to New York unless you really want to be here.”
“That’s such a New Yorker thing to say,” she laughed. “Like, We don’t want you to be here if you don’t want to be here.”
“It’s a hard city to live in,” I clarified. “If you’re not in love with the city, you’re not going to want to put up with it.”
I wasn’t just trying to scare her off or imply that nine years made me some kind of authority on the matter. I fundamentally believe that moving to a new city is much like entering into a new relationship, and truly the only person who knows what is best for you in that case is yourself. There will be the initial panic: Did you settle down too soon? Should you have given another city a shot? This will be followed by a honeymoon phase, where everything is shiny and new, convenient and incredibly exciting. This is followed by a breaking-in phase, where the realities sink in and start to blend and/or clash (see the above re: rodents, public transportation, and crying in public). If you make it through that, then there is a good chance you’re on your way to something long-term. In theory, at least.
“How long have you been in the city?” I’ve noticed those who live in New York often ask each other this, as if to gauge at what stage of the relationship they are in. “Do you live in the city?” often follows that question, meaning “Do you live in Manhattan?” (Manhattan is the stereotypical first stop for transplants.)
Then, the big one: “Do you think you’ll stay?”
To be a transplant in New York is to know that the city itself can and will weed people out. We transplants are the ones who moved here with the blind optimism that only illogical, young love can have. “It won’t be that bad,” we thought at the prospect of the city breaking us in. “It’ll make or break us,” we told ourselves, like that was a good thing.
Transplants in New York, I’ve noticed, tend to fall into two categories, which I’ll call Life Movers and Career Movers. Some are clear about which category they fall into from the start; others undergo an evolution as their relationship with the city develops. The only real way to know someone’s true status is through the test of time, as the latter group will always eventually move. “I moved here because it made sense for my career, but now I want more space,” they argue. “And savings.” Sometimes they also want better weather.
And they probably also fell out of love, at least a little. When the honeymoon phase fades, when living in New York City ceases to feel like being in a movie, what do you put on the benefit side of your cost-benefit analysis for living here? When cramped quarters and long lines start to irk you, and you wind up just sitting at home watching TV anyway, couldn’t you do that from any city—let alone someplace where you could be spending less on rent?
What nobody tells you about being a transplant in New York City is how many people you will lose. In my nine years of being here, boyfriends, roommates, and good friends were all among those who picked up and decided they didn’t need to stay. At first, I defended New York, arguing that it was still The Best Place to Live, and subsequently feeling abandoned when they didn’t agree with me. How could they not still love all the amazing opportunities this city had to offer? What could possibly make any other place better, in their eyes? The real question, the one I never asked out loud: Was I being left behind?
The harsh reality of living in New York City is knowing that it is a totally illogical place to build a life. Unless you have unlimited funds and time, almost every aspect of living in the Greatest City in America—nay, the World—presents a challenge. (Common complaints: The rent is too damn high; winter lasts six months; traffic is brutal; apartments are barely livable; jobs, and the hours people work, are grueling; the dating scene is impossible; getting a reservation at a popular establishment is a nightmare; and the Trader Joe’s line–don’t even get us started.)
“But that’s life, and New Yorkers are tough!” we Life Movers exclaim, patting ourselves on the back as seasoned veterans of a world where everything will always be just a little bit more complicated—those who, in the words of John Updike, “secretly believe that people living anywhere else have to be, in some sense, kidding.”
The thing about love, though, is you can’t convince someone else to feel it the way you do. My near decade spent living here has not been without struggle, but I did finally realize that by staying in New York, I wasn’t being left behind; I just didn’t actively choose to break up with my city yet. Until I get to that point, I’ll still be here—conscious of what my life could be elsewhere, but still choosing to wake up in this loud, crazy, expensive city every day, because this is home, not just the idea of it. Maybe, at the end of the day, that’s all that love is.
Love Stories is a series about love in all its forms, with one new essay appearing each day until Valentine’s Day.
