By Marian Daniells, News Correspondent
My first few trips to New York when I was 6, and later when I was 12, left me starstruck and fascinated. How could my hometown in California, with its simple green lawns and suburban soccer moms, possibly compare to a glittery world of skyscrapers and showtunes?
But when I made my way back to the Big Apple once I was older, I felt a little out of place. I found the fast-paced, single-mindedness of New Yorkers and the frenzy of the tourism industry exhausting.
But, of course, I was cursed with a passion for an industry that is centered around New York. From the time I was 12, it’s been a dream of mine to work at Marie Claire. I used to tell myself that I could write from anywhere, and I suppose that’s true; but to deny that New York — the “concrete jungle where dreams are made” — has a monopoly over the American writing industry is to be painfully naïve.
I had to come to terms with the fact that some day — and probably for many days — I would have to live, to work, to brown-nose and pay my dues in New York City. And here I am.
If I had to describe this city in one word, it would probably be draining. A monthly subway pass is 104 dollars and working full time is more exhausting than I ever anticipated. I’m alone and isolated in a closet of a room and I am losing weight from the combined pressure of being poor and working with models.
I’m drained, yes, but it’s not all so dreadful.
There’s an energy to this place that’s hidden beneath the black clothes and the solemn, downtrodden faces. It’s the energy that I felt those first few visits to the city and it’s an energy that I’ve come to be quite familiar within the past month.
Boston, which rivals Paris as my favorite city, is similar. But being back in town this past weekend brought to my attention the differences between my two east coast homes.
My life in Boston felt so big, full of friends and clubs and jobs and classes. But my actual world there was confined to campus and the occasional party on Mission Hill.
In New York, everything is accessible. Drinks in 20 minutes up at Columbia? You got it. Free comedy night tomorrow in east Midtown? Sounds like a plan (and highly recommended).
Tickets to shows on Broadway cost more than 100 dollars, but there are student discounts everywhere. Plus, who needs to sit in a stuffy theatre when there’s so much else to see?
Ho-nestly, the wonder of New York isn’t confined to the glitz and glamour of Times Square. It’s the middle-aged man walking around on a Sunday morning wearing a Superman costume and cowboy boots; it’s the hundreds of beautiful, leggy women walking the city and the conspicuous lack of attractive or eligible men (which I’ve opted to find funny, rather than depressing).
It’s the 4 a.m. pizza (suck on that, BHOP) in the Village after a night out with some old friends; it’s the scandalisciousness of eating a Snickers in a room of super skinny interns.
It’s the thrill of recognizing places from my favorite “Sex and the City” episodes. And in some twisted way, I’m sure there’s beauty in paying $10 for a burger (right?).
I won’t say I love this dirty old city. But I don’t hate it anymore either. Yes, I would describe it as draining — for both m y energy and my wallet — but my next adjective would be quirky.
It’s a city of art and writing and success and money. But it’s also a city made for people watching. And once my drained wallet can afford a pair of new aviator glasses, I’ll be doing a lot more of that. And writing about it.
