Rituals of an Ex-New Yorker

February 23, 2003

I lived in New York for four years. Though I was from Cleveland, it didn’t take long before I considered myself a New Yorker. There were certain markers, as I learned from those “You know you’re a New Yorker when …” emails. Apparently, knowing where to stand on the subway platform so that I would get off right in front of the exit was a sign I belonged. Religiously reading The New Yorker was another. So was wearing a look of disgust as I weaved around tourists staring up at the Empire State Building.

But what really made me a New Yorker was a certain attitude I developed, like getting used to seeing Willem Dafoe every morning at yoga practice. Or feeling no qualms about reaching into the pockets of the man who had stolen my cell phone — and making him unzip his pants. (I got my phone back.)

Or maybe it was the obscure things I knew about the city: the glow of the newly painted red walls at the Thursday night tango venue La Nacionale; the smell of freshly baked bread at the corner of Elizabeth and Prince; the crumbling beauty of the stained glass windows in the basement chapel of the condemned building at First and Bowery.

The reality of being a New Yorker was that same mixture of the mundane, insane and romantic. I would wake up and shower in a small, cramped bathroom. I would dress myself in a room that was crowded even when no one was in it. I would saddle myself with everything I might need at any point in the day: purse, yoga mat, yoga clothing, tango shoes, water bottle, book, magazine, cell phone, etc. I would get on the train and give impatient looks to people holding the doors open. I would read The New Yorker without looking up until my stop.

I would eat lunch at noon, dinner at midnight and work like a sleep-deprived New Yorker in between. Grocery shopping was done at 1 a.m., working out went as late at 10 p.m. and walking around was safe at any hour. I was up all hours, but never noticed a sunrise or sunset.

I would eat $1.25 pizza slices, $2.50 falafels and $3 congee. I’d spend $20.02 for a Restaurant Week lunch at La Cote Basque, $25 for the dinner special at Herban Kitchen and $15 for a yoga class at Om to work it all off.

My New York was a New York of vegetarian restaurants, Indian classical music concerts, Korean food, yoga studios and the arms of my Argentine tango partners. I balanced my affections between SoHo, the East Village and NoLIta, but mention of the financial district, where I once worked, always brings me back to that day, that smell. Even the tears come back.

I loved the city. And sometimes I hated the city. But that is what made me a New Yorker.

Then one day, I decided to leave.

Day by day, box by box, meal by meal, I started packing my life away. I saw all my friends, took classes with my favorite yoga teachers, went to my favorite restaurants and let go of the city block by block, step by step, friend by friend.

In the six months since, I have discovered new rituals. These are not the rituals of being an Angeleno, which I guess if you must be technical about it, I now am. These are the rituals of being an ex-New Yorker.

Most of these entail trying to relive the feeling of New York, usually to unsatisfactory results. My choice to live in the East Village-like Los Feliz has wielded only one post-2 a.m. hangout, and after dark, I don’t feel safe walking around, as no one else is. I once rode the L.A. subway, only to find that its deserted, cavernous feel made me miss New York’s raucous tunnels even more. I also checked out Chinatown, but walked the length of it in less than an hour and was barely bumped into or tempted by unknown smells.

The good thing about these failed ventures is that I then imagine how it would be in New York: Café Orlin at 3 a.m.; walking from Prince and Broadway to 2nd Ave. and 7th at midnight; the West 4th St. subway stop at any hour; bamboo, starfruit and fresh fish from Pearl River to the Grand Street station.

Visions like these are kept alive by various mental reinforcements. I start my day by reading The Times, like it’s based 2.5, not 2,500 miles away. The New Yorker also stays folded up in my purse as though I’m saving it for the train. I keep up on New York’s weather, Broadway’s latest and the new World Trade Center site proposals.

I’m like the ex-girlfriend who can’t stop keeping tabs after the most tumultuous love affair of her life.

So why did I leave? I couldn’t stand the cold. Honestly. The nature lover in me wanted to come out and play. And besides, I now live in a huge 2-BR with hardwood floors and original molding in a hip part of town, and our rent is only $1650 a month. You read that right.

But last night I had dinner with a friend, also a former New Yorker. We traveled a conversational path we’d walked before: what we want to do on our visit to New York in May. I’m sure we’ll plan it many times before then.

Rituals of an Ex-New Yorker

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