Personal Essays

Sometimes I feel cheated by having grown up so close to New York. My parents were both city kids, so perhaps a natural cynicism came through my genes. I wonder what it would be like to be amazed by things I don’t pause at, or to have a realistic expectation of what a city is. After all, if the number of people who live in cities is relatively small, the number of people who live in cities like New York is microscopic. Maybe it’s a sign of old age, but I try to remind myself now that there are places in America where the tallest building is a silo and people who think building a museum on 25 acres of good land is the height of foolishness. I’ve finally realized that what’s normal in New York isn’t normal.

But then I imagine what life would be like if I didn’t have the option of dropping by the Met any old time I wanted. Granted, it’s a little more of a chore now than it used to be, but it’s not like I have to cross an ocean or anything like that. The thought of not being able to is practically unbearable.

Somewhere is a middle ground between the two extremes.