I, NYC

This September marks 13 years in Dallas, Texas. Still, after 13 years, I am the wayward tourist I was in the late 70's when I first visited this city. I still couldn't tell you if Marsh Ln. is west or east of Midway Rd. When I emerge from downtown Dallas I am invariably on the wrong freeway going in the wrong direction, cursing, again.

I'm fortunate that I've harvested several long-lasting friendship in Dallas but in general I find the people to be empty shells, they hide behind a community or clique to give themselves some sense of identity; high school with stock portfolios and really big mortgage payments.

I lived in San Francisco for 14 years. I still love the city for many reasons but it too never felt like home. While I developed a center of gravity at Market St, don't dare ask me to identify Nob Hill vs. Russian Hill. I have no idea where Diamond Heights parts company with the Castro. Many times I emerged from the BART train and immediately went to the wrong level to catch the wrong MUNI train. I think I need the L train, or was it the K? More than once I wound up in Daly City, cursing, again.

I try to remember the people I knew during the San Francisco chapter, a murky form may hover, sometimes if I hold it just so I can mold it into a outline. If I concentrate I can make out a smile or voice before it all disintegrates and skitters away.

But I still remember the anger in the Paki cabbies eyes who almost hit me while crossing Broadway and 45th. 'What the fuck is wrong with you!' I stopped dead as I felt the wind screech past me at 30 miles an hour. I remember the face of the Korean server who shamelessly flirted with me in front of my parents at Barolo on West Broadway. Who knew I could turn Chianti red. I remember smoking a cigarette outisde of the Enoteca on Avenue A, the man who asked me how much I charged, me asking my friend Dutch, 'what part of me screams hooker?', the raised eyebrows and laughter as we walked back to Lexington Avenue.

In New York City I know where I'm going, instinctively. I know exactly where Grammercy Park ends and Murray Hill begins. I can navigate the subway system. I can plot 100 paths from Battery Park City to the Metropolitan Museum. I've walked those paths and never been lost. More often than not people stop me for directions; I usually have them.

When people ask me where I'm from I have to pause, think and make a concerted effort not to say New York. I wasn't born in New York nor have I ever lived there. My parents and grandparents, yes, they were from the city.

New York City feels like home, a comfortable well-worn feeling and ironically, very peaceful. I thrive off the subway momentum, the manic crowds, the break neck pace, the omnipresent sounds of angry taxis and brooding sirens - I sense it all simultaneoulsy, viscerally, block by block.

In the years I've travelled there I've covered every inch of Manhattan, at least everything below Harlem. Even once I unwittingly took a tour of Harlem as I emerged northbound from Central Park and just kept walking. My jaunt above 110th St. never bothered me but a good citizen of Harlem seemed worried - 'You know where you at?' I acknowledged his concern with a half-nod and kept walking. I remember his hoodie sweatshirt - blue, with gray NYC across the front, the strut-hop as he went on his way, arms outstretched, palms up in a Yo Whateva gesture.

I've never felt threatened in New York City, not once, not walking at 4am, not even pre-Giuliani, before he had the unsavory street life deported to surrounding burroughs. I still get a creepy feeling in the Garment District and again in the no man's land east and north of Washington Heights. These areas feel haunted and disjointed but no harm intended.

Beyond the depth of culture, the 24/7 availability of anything and everything, sleazy to sublime, I love the people. Individuals. The city strips off labels and smokes people out from under protective community cover. You must be yourself, they wont tolerate less. New Yorkers want to know who you are, what you stand for and what makes you unique. And they want to know it in 3 minutes or less. Not sure who you are? You will be after a year in NYC.

Some scientists claim that memory is genetic, that when an event occurs in your life, a pathway to this memory is burned not only into the synapses allowing you recall, but also into your genetic composition. I wonder then, if memory is genetic, can memories be inherited? My parents and grandparents lived in this city and maybe this explains my affinity, my sense of belonging.

Picture: My grandparents - Brooklyn, 1940

new york city