The moment I moved to New York City, I knew that this was the place for me. I said that this city was my home, and I planned to stay forever. I wanted to ignore the haters, the people who told me that New York City was over, dead.
But I have to tell the truth: New York City has irrevocably changed in the two hours since I moved here. When I pulled up in a U-Haul outside my new apartment, it was a bright, sunny day. But, two hours later, it’s colder. Different. If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere, but if the biggest star in the solar system can’t make it here, well, then maybe it’s time for me to move on, too.
I remember my first moments in New York as if they were a few seconds ago: my friends were all right there, laughing with me, sharing plans about all the things we were going to do in this big, crazy town. It’s sad to say, but I lost touch with them faster than you can imagine. Everyone who was standing next to me has since gone elsewhere. “I’ve got to go to work,” one said. “My boss told me to be on time today,” another said. My friends and I used to have the same priority—helping me move into my new apartment—and, as hard as it is to accept, theirs changed. At least I’ll always have the memories of them carrying my boxes while I sat on the floor watching an episode of “Mad Men.” No one can take that from me.
I know that what I’m saying might be hard for newcomers to understand. If you moved here even fifteen New York minutes after I did, you arrived in an entirely different place. Maybe you weren’t ready to make the leap yet, or maybe you were stuck in traffic on the Kosciuszko Bridge. Whatever the reason, I’m sorry to say, but you missed out.
And, listen, it’s true that I haven’t been here as long as some people who moved to the city four hours ago, or even six hours ago, but I don’t know how they do it. Watching a place you love change is painful. The cute little coffee shop next door where I used the bathroom but didn’t buy anything appears to be empty now, lights out. The staff said, “We’re closed,” and shut the door. The end of yet another New York City institution.
A hundred and twenty minutes ago, this neighborhood was only adults. It was cool, edgy, dirty. There was trash piled up in front of my building. A man wearing a T-shirt and smoking a cigarette sauntered by. But the neighborhood became sanitized and homogeneous so quickly. I heard a loud bell ring, and then suddenly there were children everywhere, wearing those tiny backpacks, walking hand in hand with their parents and nannies. The trash is gone. Someone came and picked it up. Despite my best efforts to follow him home, I cannot find that man who was wearing a T-shirt and smoking a cigarette.
I can’t help but roll my eyes. Since when do children live in New York City? I’ll tell you this much—they weren’t here an episode of “Mad Men” ago. I know what you’re thinking: A lot can happen in one hour of “Mad Men,” but that’s TV, not real life. I would blame the mayor, but I have no idea who he is or what a mayor even does. Being a New Yorker—and, yes, that is what I call myself—you learn to expect the unexpected. Yet, when I venture just one block away, it’s almost as if I’ve entered a new city, somewhere I’ve never been before.
The thing that really gets me is that no one seems as upset about this as I do. Wake up, people! I met my neighbor earlier; he’s been here for two whole days, and he doesn’t seem bothered at all. I stood in the park, screaming, “Make it stop! Make it stop! Bring back old New York!” Everyone just looked at me like I was Pete Campbell in an episode of “Mad Men”—and I mean the earlier seasons, not the later ones.
I have to say, I’ve lasted a lot longer than other people who have tried their luck in New York City, but I think it’s time for me to move on. Go somewhere that won’t change so fast. I’m ready to try my luck in a place that I know will never change, and is famous for always staying the same: Los Angeles. ♦
