Brooklyn!

I gotta say I actually like living in Brooklyn. I’ve lived there for almost two years, and I think I’ve finally gotten over Manhattan.

It was bad at first. I had moved out of tiny, two-bedroom (360 square feet, no closets; shower in the living room, etc.), six-floor walk-up, rent-stablized West Village apartment begrudgingly. Even though the paint was peeling, the mice ran rampant inside the walls, and the entire building felt like it was sinking, I still loved it. It was the West Village, man! You can see celebs there! You can pay $2.50 for a Magnolia cup cake! You can walk along the gentrifed West Side Highway park and ignore the mild sewage odor and pretend you were in San Francisco! I guess it was time. At some point, I might be pregnant, and unless my husband is willing to piggyback me up six flights, I just can’t pull it off.

Once ensconced in Brooklyn, we were in a new world of space and quiet and it creeped me out. It reminded me of the suburbs, and I felt hopelessly stuck. Somehow, though I had spent so much energy to get away from my suburban roots, I came smack back to it. What is thing, these quiet streets, with these trees all over the place? I missed Manhattan terribly. I imagined all my friends having raucous good times, creating exciting memories from nightlife pursuits I was too far away to experience (I live like 20 minutes from Manhattan). The subway commute to work was longer. I couldn’t visit my old neighborhood–too painful, it was like going through a breakup, and I didn’t want to be reminded of the good old days..

But suddenly, in year two, I have fallen in love with my neighborhood. I mean, I can jog on the sidewalk and not have to dodge bodies. It’s nice to wake up and not hear sirens. There are a lot of cool volunteer organizations in Brooklyn, tons of writing groups and theater people. People are friendlier in Brooklyn. Isn’t that weird? But it’s true–folks are less guarded and actually look at each other when passing. And these trees are like growing on me.

I still can’t wander in the West Village without feeling pangs of melancholy, but…it’s okay. At least, I’m healing. Ha ha haha.