Last week I spent a few days in New York, checking in with my bosses at fredflare.com. I love New York, but every trip there makes me an even firmer believer in the adage that it’s a great place to visit but not such a great place to live. Especially at my age.
The pace is much faster than any other city I’ve ever lived in or visited; and my life’s resume includes such metropolises as Chicago, Detroit, Indianapolis, Houston, San Francisco, and New Orleans. The drive — and I don’t mean the commute in an automobile — is greater too, more intense, more personal. Everyone who’s moved to the Big Apple from somewhere else is determined to make it big. Well, if not big, at least make it.
People work two and three jobs to manage the cost of living. They race here and there. They don’t scoop up after their dogs. They stay out late. They almost all wear black. Few smile randomly. As for the neighborhoods, dirt abounds. This is in addition to the dog issue. There are no alleys, so on any given day certain residents place their garbage and trash on the street for the sanitation department to dispose of. The aroma can be overwhelming, but New Yorkers are used to it. They are our nation’s stoics.
Everything is magnified. The noise, the pollution, the density of population, the variety of ethnic cultures, the drama. It’s an assault on the senses, particularly if you’re not used to it. Even with my big city resume, I’m always glad to come home and recuperate from the 24/7 onslaught of life on the run; but I know I’ll want to return, because no other city in America is so addictive.
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