This Rotten Apple Never Tasted So Sweet

New York is really really getting me down lately, but I still cant imagine leaving, maybe I am too rigid and elitist in my ways or maybe I am just stupid.

Three weeks ago my apartment was trashed by an electrician who was doing work, he left my refrigerator off by mistake, broke a vase, dusted all of my earthly belongings with plaster and paint chips and then he left. The following week a car was on fire on my block, which reminded me that pointless vandalisim is still indeed burning and last week my wallet and phone were stolen reminding me that nothing is sacred and that strangers just dont care about me. And as all of this is going on, the days are getting shorter and darker and the deep cold winter looms in the distance.

But the other night we were out getting sushi and a man at the bar, who we have seen around the neighborhood but have never spoken to, bought us two drinks. An old hispanic couple got onto the bus the other day, the man yelling something and waving his hands, the woman walked to the back of the bus and pulled out her purse that she had forgotten under the seat. The whole bus smiled warmly as she desended the stairs in impossible triumph. I ran into a dear old friend on Park Avenue the other morning on my way to work. We discovered a perfect new wine bar the other night. A man played a joyus version of When the Saints Go Marching in on a trombone in the subway yesterday. Do these things happen in other places?

And today I went to my old place of work to ask my former boss for a reccomendation. I dont know of any place where the people are so dependent on the pulse, grit and grandeur of New York. I always feel a little sad when I see them, nothing ever changes and they are sometimes insufferable and stubborn, but they are all disciples of New York and they are smart, charming and interesting. If they stepped foot outside of the city they would fade into oblivion, they are being kept alive on the fumes of our dear city. They are all part of the endless B-list of guests at a New York party, sitting just beside the famous person and offering them a roll and a joke. They are the people that The New Yorker is written for, they have money, education, strong political leanings, good taste and take secret pleasure in name dropping and getting their shoes shined.

So here it is, reasons to leave, reasons to stay. And I am filling out applications for grad school in other cities, and although I really should be dedicated enough to my cause to go anywhere to pursue it, I really dont want to leave.

But I will say this to the city that never sleeps, maybe you should try and get some rest.