It’s not even 10 AM and I swear that all of New York’s tourists are already drunk. It’s a complete mess out there. The three blocks I walk from Grand Central Station to Madison and 45th are filled with green faces, stickered pant legs, green top hats, green umbrellas, green everything. It’s insane. The parade runs up 5th Avenue, not a block from my office. It begins at around 11 AM. I am 21 floors above 5th avenue and I can hear them screaming. This evening will surely be a mess. The sidewalks will be speckled with all those passed out, those puke-covered, those bloated faces slurring for taxis, all of them spilling into the streets. And I’ll have to maneuver my way around them creating my own, real-life video game. Come tomorrow, the toilets and their pipes will be stuffed full of dyed green shit and light green piss; it’s just another St. Patrick’s Day here in the Big Apple.
I do so love New York. I love the fact that you can get anywhere you want for 2 bucks. I love the fact that everything – literally everything – can be bought, found, borrowed, watched, and seen here. I love the fact that its mixture of people is just like the juxtaposition of its buildings. You’ll find a 98-year-old woman next to a 2-year-old girl; New York replenishes its life constantly and its builders do the same with its buildings. The people are sometimes the tallest people you’ve ever seen. Sometimes they’re the shortest.
I love that New York has a soundtrack and that its lead singer is not always a saxophone. I love that it’s as deep as it is tall and I find that a little creepy as well. And it’s true what they say, the city never does sleep and the exhaustion shows in much the same way as it does on a human face.
I love that this guy can become a celebrity with such a horrible ad.
I love that this city has seasons and that it gets cranky sometimes and that when it does its people get cranky, too. This city doesn’t stop moving for anyone. And sometimes when I feel like I’m getting a big head about my small world, I am immediately humbled the moment I walk outside; if you leave, if you die, New York won’t remember you. When you agree to live here, you become just another one of New York’s temporary hitchhikers. It’s possible to get lost here in absolutely every way. And it’s also possible to find oneself.
I have to be honest about something. As I was walking up Graham Avenue this morning I had every intention of writing about something frustrating me about this city. And then, with all the green people and their already booze inflated cheeks, I felt even more rigid and annoyed. It was only after I sat down and started to write this post and began to hear the screams coming up from below, did my mood take a turn. I love this city. I love that sometimes I hate it and that sometimes it does something like moves my car from one street to another without letting me know, or that it takes 45 percent of my bonus. I love hating that the subways sometimes don’t run at all. I love that its people ignore you, knock into you, and seemingly detest you but the moment you become sick or need help, countless people lend a hand, a shoulder, their seat or their wallet.
This place has become my life. I have bad days and bad months and bad weeks. Sometimes, I have bad entire years. I take great comfort in the fact that I’m in a city that does too. In all of my life, I haven’t ever met a city like New York.
But, seriously, New York, you really could do something about the BQE.