Upon moving to a new city, one goes through the natural acclimation periods, including a stretch where the city is comfortable, but not yet home.
Then comes an instance where suddenly one lashes out, and acts in a way not previously thought possible on a personal level. The Moment is when realization sets in: Yep, this is my town.
Upon moving to a new city, one goes through the natural acclimation periods, including a stretch where the city is comfortable, but not yet home.
Then comes an instance where suddenly one lashes out, and acts in a way not previously thought possible on a personal level. The Moment is when realization sets in: Yep, this is my town.
I grew up in New Jersey, always traveling to New York City for events and weekends with my family. I began working in Manhattan when I graduated, and two years later I moved into the city proper.
For a while, I was a Jerseyan in the City, right down to my abundance of khaki pants and brown shoes. I defended my home state (still do); I identified more with my past than my present. It was natural to do so. But I quickly succumbed to the rhythms of city life, since I knew them well before I moved.
A few months after relocating, I was heading north in Times Square at the corner of 46th and Broadway, and I wound up standing on the corner, behind a man who wasn’t stepping off the curb. I pushed past him, bumping his shoulder as I went, muttering under my breath about stupid tourists clogging up the sidewalks.
Then I looked up and found myself crossing 46th Street against the light with a car barreling toward me.
I got to the far corner without incident, but I knew what had happened. “Well, David,” I thought to myself, “you’re a New Yorker now.”