Point of the Rat Race

Standing at the top of the stairs in Grand Central station this morning, I had a bird's eye view of the traffic patterns New Yorkers make when they charge through open space. It's so easy to dismiss these behaviors as animalistic: "it's a rat race".
But what truly is the reason we hurry?

The rat race isn't about getting ahead. It's about autonomy.
In New York, you have a hundred decisions a day to make in the blink of an eye. Whoever blinks first, looses. If you don't take a seat on the train, you can bet the guy next to you will. When you wait to throw your hand up for a cab, the woman across the street is already stepping into it. Here in Manhattan, more than any place on earth, if you don't make a decision, one will be made for you. 8 million people are competing for jobs, cash, food, apartments and, above all else, a sense of self which is constantly subject to alienation. At the end of the day, no one really cares who got home first or who made the most money. All we really care about in New York is who made it home with a little bit of dignity.

Of Boys and Mensch

I know they say that Los Angeles is the City of Sex (or at least Tupak claimed so in his Jr. High school hit "California Love") but I'm starting to see why New York has its own tawdry image. This thought came from one startling, glorifying revelation:

I'm hot in New York.

I'm not going to say that I was exactly at the bottom of the food chain in Oregon, but here I'm some kind of novelty. The ethnic diversity surprisingly doesn't include many fair, (real) blonde women and that seems to strike a carnal chord with the men in this city.

It could be that there are just so many more people here that I can't help but notice them noticing me, but I really think there is something to this multi-racial environment. Black men, Jews, Indian guys, you name it. An Asian man in the subway told me he's in the market for a girlfriend, the Inwood men whisper "que linda" (how pretty) when I walk by and my black bus driver asked me to marry him.

I love this city.

The Eyes of Park Avenue

Most days I stroll down Park Ave to or from work. I always wonder what the doormen of New York City know.

My guess is everything.

They're the silent, omniscient, ubiquitous audience to the upper Echelon and commoner alike. They catch me singing to myself at least once a week as I round a corner or talking to myself as I look up from my life into their all-seeing eyes.

The other morning, when the city started to turn cold, I had to improvise with a ski jacket over my suit pants. I'm guessing I looked quite like a social transformer with one half city, one half country. I could feel the doormen looking at me as if to discern which half I belonged to. These stealth observers were confused by how I fit into this new city.

Well, so am I.




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First Winter

The air drastically changed this week. New York summer is soon to be bitter New York winter. The leaves are, as expected, drying out just like the cracked skin of my hands facing the first wave of indoor heating. My adjustment to soaking humidity is slowly being replaced by a new found fear of my first real winter. Snow isn't a commodity here. Temperatures below zero aren't uncommon. People actually wear scarves here for their insulating properties--not because they're "cute" like we do at home.

While the weather is in flux, my life is finally starting to become stable. I go to work and come home at the same time every day. I take the 1 train and the M79 bus across Central Park everyday. I see the sun rise through my curtains and watch the planes on their way to LaGuardia every night. These are miniscule things on an individual basis, but together form routines that establish a life and a sense of belonging that's been missing since I arrived here.

Only time will reveal how determined I am to make this my home.