I think it was a day in July this summer. It was 739 degrees with 900% humidity, and, like the rest of the population of Manhattan, I had picked the subway as my preferred mode of commuting, as taking a cab or Uber from SoHo to the Upper East Side seemed less than ideal.
I should probably mention that this was also around the same short, but painful period of time when the "feminist" armpit hair phenomenon was on full-force, with more people hopping on the bandwagon each day.
As I descended the steps to the NQR at Union Square, a thick, heavy, hot, and dirty currant washed my face. The station was so packed that I couldn't even go down all of the steps as people were passive aggressively elbowing and shouldering each other to stand as close to the yellow line as possible. Moreover, some of these lovely fellow commuters were either not big proponents of hygiene products such as deodorant, or their endocrine system had lost the battle to the underground heat. Either way, the array of smells, combined with the microwave-like heat situation, made me question which was worse; squeezing in the next train like a cow in a cattle being forced into a small barn only to be milked by machines sucking on its nipples, or getting stuck on the platform like a sheep amongst a sea of wolves. I decided that the former was more attractive as the uncertainty of the train schedule was a scary factor all on its own.
It was when I sat down in the train surrounded by a sea of people, that I experienced a New York City moment. As I turned my gaze upwards to avoid awkward eye contact with a woman whose eyes I could sense on my face, I came eye to "eye" with something much worse than a stranger's pair of eyes. There it was, an armpitful of fully grown, groomed, bushy and blue hair, right in my face, peeking at me through the sweaty arm hole of a girl's t-shirt.
It is during the smallest of moments, such as this particular one, that I tend to experience mini existential crises.
Suddenly, a wide array of questions start coming to mind, as if to have awoken from the dead to celebrate a final night in the world of the living.
What the hell am I doing here? Why am I doing this to myself? Why is it so goddamn hot, humid, and stinky everywhere in this city? And of all the cities in the world, why did I chose to live here?
Then, the train arrived at my stop. I got off and emerged into regular levels of oxygen, despite still suffering from ridiculous amounts of heat and humidity. There was, however, a mild breeze, brushing off the stress and tenseness from the ride just a minute ago. All of a sudden, I was no longer complaining, but just listening to my Spotify and strutting down the street, blissfully forgetful of the somewhat miserable ride that lasted for what felt like an eternity.
--
That's the thing with New York. No matter how gross it is and how cramped it makes you feel, it is still New York. It's a city that most people read or hear about, or see in Hollywood movies, but can't even imagine themselves visiting. As Jay-Z once said, it's a concrete jungle where dreams are made of, that, as the great Frank Sinatra put it even earlier, makes you believe you can make it anywhere if you make it here first.
It's a city that has the power to make or break you. It's true with any relationship that ideally, you get what you give. New Yorkers' relationships with their city is a true testament to this. New York can be the best thing that ever happened to you. It can also be the worst. It doesn't pamper you like most other cities. It doesn't make things easy on you. It doesn't cuddle you up in wool blanket when you're cold or tell you stories and sing you lullabies when you're alone and scared and don't quite know what to do. That said, it doesn't go out of its way to trip you either. Although, at times, it can certainly feel that way.
You leave your apartment wearing your new suede shoes and a cab driver just splashes the entire pool of muddy water sitting on the side of the road all over them. Then you walk in the subway station only to see that the 4 | 5 is delayed due to construction. You wait ten minutes because you know it'll be harder to find a cab during that time of day, and then get on the train only to hear that it's making local stops. And of course, there's no service underground, which means that you can't tell your 5:15 that you're running late to meet her, which is not only rude, but also likely means that you're going to be late for your 6pm.
On days like this, it's easy to blame the City. In fact, that is perhaps the easiest thing to do of all.
Don't.
Instead, see this as an opportunity to learn something about yourself. What is the City telling you? What is it about yourself, about your job, a relationship, or your health that needs your attention? It serves you no purpose to ignore or worse yet, fight these symptoms, rather than build more aggravation over time.
With New York, you can't take things personally. It isn't out to get you. It isn't trying to make your life any more difficult than it already might be. Being tough is in its nature. There are more than 8 million other people who demand the same type of things that you do from it every single day; some of them use it as an excuse or justification for their own failures and some use it as their springboard to do great things with their lives. Some of the greatest success stories in history have their roots in this city; some of the saddest ones do too.
There are a myriad stories, but the city upon which all of them are built is the same.
It's a city that keeps things real. Majority of New Yorkers will tell you that they have a love / hate relationship with the city. The battle that you have with the city, especially on days when you feel like it's truly testing your limits, is really a battle you're having with yourself. The City just reflects it back to you.
At times when you feel that the small, annoying "city" things are ruining your day, think about this. Your reaction, the anger, frustration, disappointment, self-pity, or whatever else it may be, are all signals of something greater that needs your attention. Think about it. If everything was going according to plan (or better), if your mind wasn't clouded with thoughts and concerns, if you weren't puzzled by something, if you didn't have something else going on that constantly consumed a part of your energy, would you react the same way to these little incidents?
Most probably not.
So the next time you're mad at a pigeon for walking in front of you and taking its sweet time instead of flying, or when you get attacked by the Time Out guys right outside the Union Square stop. Stop, breathe, and look around.
This is the same city that Duke Ellington made it in. As did Peggy Guggenheim, Woody Allen, and Malcolm Forbes. And it isn't out to get you. There's so much to do, so much to see, so many people to meet.
Realize that you're lucky to be living here. And think about this: No matter how much you complain about it, how challenging it may make life feel at times, it most probably has made you a better version of yourself than the one when you first moved here.
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A couple of weeks ago, I visited my friend in Atlanta. The minute I walked into her apartment, I felt a shortness of breath when I saw that she lives in a 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom all by herself, and still pays less than I do in rent. Spending a few blissful days without traffic, pollution, noise, and rodents, I once again, started to question my decision to live in New York. Then, on Sunday evening, I arrived home, only to find the trees outside my building decorated in Christmas lights.
And that was all I needed to remember why I wanted to live here in the first place.
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