Most days, I love being a New Yorker. What’s not to love about a city that offers so much in culture, experiences and various personalities?
Today, however, it blows… right through my closed window, which sits next to the Hudson River. On a perfect Spring day or a warm Summer night, the breeze is my friend and savior. Tonight, it has conspired with the schizophrenic radiator in my room to keep me addicted to Booster C vitamins for the rest of Winter. With temperatures in the teens, the big apple is now what clever newspaper caption writers (whose job I semi covet) call the “frozen apple”, and I’m not loving it. Give me the “orange state” of Florida, please.
Sitting here, fully clothed and huddled up in sweats and two layers of socks and sneakers… my mind wanders wistfully to places like Jamaica, Bermuda and Miami — where I not only had the time of my life, but I was significantly warmer (although not by much in Bermuda). Just thinking about South Beach and the ocean waves cooling off the hot sand that I wish was running through my toes instead of this shooting pain that feels like frost bite.
But as much as I’d prefer the warmth of the sun and sand, this brutally cold city has my heart. It’s where I can get pizza, Thai, Caribbean, and sushi within blocks of each other. It’s where I’ve checked out the Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art on the upper east side, and a local homegrown artist exhibition at the awesome Apt 78 Lounge in the upper upper west side neighborhood of Inwood in the same day. It’s where I meet and connect with people who own multiple homes and use “Summer” as a verb, in addition to those who are just getting by in their rentals and looking forward to Summer the season so they can hit Coney Island. It’s where I can converse comfortably with hedge fund executives, marketing and media wizards and unemployed folks taking advantage of the free wi-fi in the coffee shops and libraries. It’s where I can watch the majestic dancers of Alvin Ailey and Ronald K. Brown’s Evidence troupes, and then see young kids with moves defying gravity on the subway ride home.
Physically, I feel the bitter chill, but the thought of New York always warms my heart.
When I think of Florida, I think of Alligators, and unless I’ve decided to become a cobbler for the pimp industry — there’s just no reason for me to be near them.