The New New Yorker

"One belongs to New York instantly; one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years." – Thomas Wolfe

The thought is novel, believing that one will feel at home so quickly in a new city. That one will be embraced by their surroundings at once, that all the pieces will fit just like that, and that one will belong. To gather the courage to move across the country, I suppose one must think happy thoughts. The risk is just too great to consider the alternative.

I often wonder if I moved to New York to run away from my problems. My expectations of the city were so high, so I painted my dreams to match. I thought I’d be able to reinvent myself, that somehow my past couldn’t follow me to the East Coast. After all, there wasn’t enough room in my suitcases for my emotional baggage. I very well couldn’t wear yesterday’s scars in the city of tomorrow’s new Prada, Louis, and Gucci.

It has been much longer than five minutes, yet it certainly hasn’t been five years since I decided to become a New Yorker. I’ve learned how to hail a cab (without trying to flag down an off-duty car), my go-to heels have lost about three inches, and I’ve paid eighteen dollars for a pastrami sandwich at Katz Deli. To the average observer, I’ve graduated from tourist to local. Yet, I can’t help but wonder – if I truly belong here, why doesn’t New York feel like home?

I guess it’s hard to belong anywhere when you don’t even feel comfortable in your own skin. I guess when you run away from all the perceived bad in your life, and all you’re left with is yourself, and the bad is still there, you realize that it’s been inside all along, that there is no running away anymore.

All that’s left to do is to cry it out. New York City has stripped me of the masks I’ve used for so long to cover it up, and I’m exposed. Like the trash piled on every street corner, my demons wait to be thrown away, and frankly, it stinks. If only there was an express train to serenity.