Tonight's post is a little "thank-you" to Manhattan, a city that has, despite my humble origins, become my home town. It is the location of our first home (here in the Cherokee), the city of my marriage (the bureaucratic city hall ceremony of 4 minutes after 30 minutes waiting in line, as well as the service at the UN and the reception at Beacon in midtown), and the birthplace of my daughter. My Manhattan is no longer that image we get in movies or TV: midtown, Times Square, and massive apartments somehow acquired by scroungers who work but one day a week at Starbucks. It is the city of my family. And, despite this move to SF, I have a feeling it always will be.
Sometime around 5th grade I started watching Saturday Night Live (I still maintain that the cast from about 1987 or so to 1990 is the best ever assembled) and started to fall in love with New York. It was around this time that my father told me that he could see me living in Manhattan. He may have simply been attempting to feed his only son's dream of someday becoming a comedy writer, but, at the risk of sounding hokey, I think he may have been on to something. He didn't say I'd work for SNL, he said he could "see me living in Manhattan." That thought stuck. My dad didn't necessarily plant the seed for someday living in New York, but he did confirm for me, all those years ago, that it was possible.
The opportunity to actually move to New York wouldn't occur for another ten years or so, but when it did, I didn't hesitate. Sumie had been accepted to Columbia for medical school. Me, I had just finished a year teaching English outside Tokyo and was still keeping Japan time by sleeping through the day on my mom's couch. After a month of lethargy I was ready to move to New York. I set out with a $79.00 Amtrak ticket (yes, that's over 3 days without a bed or shower and I stank upon my arrival at Penn Station), about $2,000 in cash, and a large blue suitcase. Though my family thought I was nuts, I was oddly at ease. Countless individuals had made their way in NYC with far less. Why couldn't I do it, too? Within a month of my arrival I had an apartment, a job, and even a new car!
To live in Manhattan one has to take a little bit of joy, or at least pride, in the sacrifices and hardships the city so readily provides. I was not without my share. I left my first apartment - a shared, railroad one-bedroom shoddily converted into two (I got the room with the sole window facing the air-shaft and a lively community of families who spent their off-hours arguing) - after 18 months as a result of bed bugs. Yes, bed bugs. It was hell. I had PTSD for a year. Every piece of lint, every speck of dust, was a potential blood sucker and sleep sapper. But, though NYC is now the US home to bed bugs, it's also one of the few places you can instantly escape them.
After attempting to kill the blood suckers, to no avail, I finally decided to bail. Thanks to Craigslist, I had an apartment viewing arranged within a day, and then secured the studio apartment a day after that. It was tiny, but my own. I moved in my sparse belongings and, to ensure none of the creepy-crawlies followed me, I took advantage of the near-zero fahrenheit February temperatures to freeze my new home. I turned off the steam, opened the windows, and let the cold do its magic. The only hitch was that I needed to come in twice a day to chip away the ice in the toilet. Yes, chipping away ice in a toilet. This is why so many dream of coming to Manhattan.
Despite the hardships, it is true. Many people still dream of living in Manhattan. For the first few years after leaving California I'd often be asked, upon my many trips home, where I was now living. I'd answer "New York," which was always met with, "Oh. Where in New York?" Whenever I answered "Manhattan" the response was often tinged with a bit of awe. So many people I met shared that they had always wanted to live there, if only for a few years. I hate to admit it, but whenever someone shared that he had wanted to live in Manhattan I always felt a bit proud that I had actually made it happen.
There are so many stories to share. There's the night when I came home late from work, with some leftovers from a dinner out, and was greeted by a homeless woman who, after telling me she lived in Riverside Park with 28 cats, asked me if I liked Tina Turner. I, of course, answered in the affirmative. My reward: a late-night rendition of "What's Love Got To Do With It." Quite good, actually. Needless to say, she got my leftovers as well as a few dollars.
Another story helped to reaffirm that, despite my late arrival, New York really is my home. A few days before my wedding, I was driving around the city and outlying areas with my groomsmen picking up items for the ceremony. Now, on the eve of leaving New York, I think it is fair to say that despite my upbringing I am quintessentially a New York driver. This, however, does not go down well in California. A friend of mine, while riding through the city with me, commented that, "I always thought you were insane behind the wheel, but now I realize you're just a New Yorker." This was the ultimate confirmation. For me, at least, to drive like a New Yorker is to be a New Yorker.
Despite being born in California, I will be coming to San Francisco as a New Yorker. My wife, who was born in Tokyo, will also be coming as a New Yorker. And my daughter, of better stock than her father or mother, will be coming to the west coast as a Manhattan native. We are all excited for the adventure San Francisco holds for us, but, at the same time, I think that no matter how long we live in California our hearts will always be in New York. It's like the opposite of that song "I left my heart in San Francisco." Funny, there are so many songs about being in or going to New York, but none about leaving it. Perhaps one who loves it never really does.
And to close, here are a couple pictures of Mimi enjoying one of her last evenings in the city. She'll continue to eat wires in San Francisco, but I wonder if it will ever be quite the same!
-Steve
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