New York City always gives me a stiff uppercut upon re-entry, as if to say, ‘You think you can just leave? Oh yeah? Who the hell do you think you are?’ There’s nothing graceful or warm or harmonious about it; in fact, it’s kind of an abusive relationship – I get beaten up and bruised but I keep going back. . . and why? That’s the part I can’t figure out. It’s not like going home to my parents’ house and finding all kinds of newspaper clippings and cute little bottles of sweet smelling soap and lotion in my bedroom. . . no, no -- not at all. From JFK to Brooklyn is a labyrinth of freeways, a montage of taxi-television, and at the end of the ride is a bill equal to what it would cost to live for four or five days in Mexico.
Being away and traveling always makes me realize the ways that living in New York has enriched my life, but returning always makes me wonder why I stay here. One obvious reason is the ease with which one can travel to all parts of the globe – so many direct flights out of JFK! I also love the people -- I love smart people. I love creative people. I love walking around in my neighborhood and hearing more non-English languages than I hear English spoken. I love having long conversations in Spanish about global economics with my landlord, out on the stoop. I love the fresh scents and bare shoulders of spring, the drummers and soccer players and bicyclists and lunatics and ninjas who roam the verdant pathways of Prospect Park. I love Sahadi’s. I love late dinners. I love that my friends open for Snoop Dogg or have impromptu jams at St. Nick’s Pub with Roy Hargrove on a Wednesday night. What scares me is that New York is everyday becoming more and more owned and operated by corporate America – every time I blink, I see another Bank of America or Chase replacing a locally-owned business, another Staples or another Starbucks – promising to remake your drink until it’s ‘perfect,’ because they love their customers so much.
I will admit there were times in Argentina I felt frustrated – scheduling my days around the four-hour siesta from 1-5pm, waiting forever for a menu, a second forever to place an order, and a third forever. . . you get the picture – service is not a big priority to waiters who make a decent hourly wage. That said, there’s something disturbing about the lies that consumer capitalism proffers – that the acquisition of the right eyeliner or SUV or Ipod will make you happy and beautiful, or that ‘perfection’ is something achievable in the form of a Frappucino. It just doesn’t ring true. Wandering around Brooklyn on a Saturday also made me see how much I – we – exercise our purchasing power to soften the edges of a hard environment: designer jeans in exchange for a 70-hour work week or a Friday night conference call. All of this makes me wonder about quality of life and who's really enjoying it -- the North Americans with our infinite closets and graveyards of 'outdated' electronic gadgets, or South Americans who eat meals at a table with their families and go to college for free.
Here’s my question, guys: where else can we go? Despite what New York may or may not be becoming (perhaps you disagree with my observations of change), there are a decreasing number of places left in the good old USA where one isn’t bludgeoned with patriotism, paranoia and ethnocentrism on a daily basis, made dull by endless miles of strip malls and chain food purveyors. Maybe the question isn’t where else we can go, but how we can make this place better – how we can de-Ikea-fy Brooklyn and see that Corbonics is only spoken in whispers.
I’m happy to be back – there is still a lot to do, a lot to learn. Talk to me about Utopia. Show me the green door, tell me where it leads.
