twenty-something

"This city does sleep, but not soundly..."

Ugh. Scratch that. Yet another false start to writing about my new life in New York -- and yet another shining nugget of crap...

This is a new chapter and I'm at a loss for words to begin it -- at least any words that don't sound like the cliched start of a bad novel. It's all just enormous, overwhelming -- both the city and the task of documenting it. Where does one begin? How do you start a life here? How to you write about starting a life here? In Manhattan? This island is made of concrete and flesh. I suppose there's more to it, but all I see is pavement and people, for miles and miles. Each day I pass more strangers on the street than I met in the first ten years of my life total. The buildings are mountains here, castles really, and the buzz of trains and horns and sirens is always there. The sights. The sounds. The smells.

This is all new to me. And I kind of love it.

I am adjusting, settling in. My room feels lived in. My apartment begins to feel comfortable. I can navigate my street -- East 14th -- and our corner market (which I'm told is also called a "bodega," something I never learned on Sesame Street) and I've paid someone to pick up my dirty laundry and deliver it back, clean, neatly folded, and shrink-wrapped (for a small fee). I've casually clicked through craigslist for both cock and employment -- though no combination of the two, and with little luck for either cause. I've walked from 76th Street to 10th, then to Battery Park and back, and my feet don't have blisters. Well, not many, anyway.

Yes, I'm settling in -- but more importantly, things are sinking in. This isn't just a visit to the Big Apple. This is not a vacation. I live here now.

My time here has been busy and enjoyable, though not entirely productive. I've seen good friends and begun to make new ones. I've eaten extremely well. I've walked miles of concrete, exploring the many pieces of New York (and still fairly clueless as to how most of them connect). I've seen enough celebrities and cockroaches that the shock of either has already worn off. And I'm starting to get pissed at fools on the sidewalks or subway; at times my blood boils hot as the tar on the street. I've learned to walk offensively, just like a New Yorker.

But I'm not one. I don't think I'll ever be a New Yorker. I'm a visitor, a Vermonter, a country mouse -- and anyone here can tell that just with one look. Perhaps its my shaggy hair, lighter due to the summer, redder than it's been in years; or perhaps it's my beard, not quite stylishly trimmed nor bearishly wild; or is it the baggy cargo shorts and so-called "fratboy style" of Gap polo shirts and UVM t-shirts I sport every day; or maybe it's the Croc shoes, so practical and crunchy I'm told they're almost trendy here. Perhaps it's all these things -- but I know what people see when the look at me. I know how they know.

My eyes give me away.