Alizah Salario

All roads lead to New York

“I’m not saying this in any conceited way, but New York is the center of the world.”

It was not the first time a New Yorker told me this, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.  I sort of loathed him for saying it, but I also sort of agreed In any city of average proportions – Detroit, St. Louis – such a brazen declaration of self-importance would automatically be taken as tongue in cheek – or merely delusional. In the Los Angeleses and Londons of the world, you might agree that they are the center of something -  say, the film industry or the art world – but without this one aspect they would no longer be in the running for Center of the World. They couldn’t stand on their own without added bells and whistles. In New York, however, its many facets are not separate from the core of the city. They are the city. So you have to at least consider the hypothesis. Or pretend to.

I love all my cities, and I hate to be forced to rank them.  I believe in polyamorous love when it comes to places; you need to run to the comforting arms of an old home on occasion, if only to appreciate what you’ve got when you return. Chicago, Los Angeles and Istanbul, my previous homes, all contain many of the traits that New York possesses and attributes to its one-of-a-kind-status: stellar restaurants, diversity, arts, culture and beyond. So what it is about New York – and I find myself hesitating – is that none of these places have the gravitational pull of this place. None have such a tightly packed nucleus, a core of strength that draws everything around it into its force field. None feels like a living, breathing entity unto itself.  None sucks you in so completely that you simply cannot divorce yourself from the place that you are in; you cannot live in New York and refuse to be a part of the city.  No one is on the margins because the city is comprised of them, no one is on the outside because there is no real “in.” We all belong here, and then again none of us do.

Things move quickly and set the rest of the world in motion. I can’t say that it makes New York any better, but it does force you to keep up and cut the bullshit. In that sense, in New York, people inevitably become more of who they really are.

Suddenly there I was, sweating on the F train in anticipation of the last stop. Not surprisingly, I’ve always wanted to go to Coney Island.

Coney Island bears the trademark signs of any seaside amusement spot : men looking ridiculous carrying oversized stuffed animals on their shoulders, the spoils of their conquests at knock ‘em down or shoot the freak, row upon row of identical stores selling postcards, beachwear, inflatable toys and sunscreen, people belonging nowhere selling their wares from makeshift tables set up along the sidewalk, colorful menus hand-painted on concrete walls listing overpriced soft serve and frozen drinks, paint fading in the thick salt air, arepas, gyros, funnel cake, mangos, bbq, caramel apples, cotton candy, whining kids, drunk men, and couples engaging in excessive PDAs. Then there’s me, and the rest who fly solo.

I bought a mango on a stick and sad on a bench to stare at the sea.  It was peeled and sliced so that the layers of fruit resembled juicy petals. It was enough to share but I ate the entire thing myself.

Coney Island is like an old man who knows his best years are over. No matter how many flashy lights and glitzy rides you tack on, a sense of sadness pervades the place. I got all nostalgic for a time I never knew, say, when handsome sailors docked in NYC for 48 hrs and payed their respects to the ladies by taking them on the Ferris wheel before heading back to sea. Yet Coney Island is highly relevant. The clown from Steven King’s It, Pee Wee in his big top adventure, and a narrow media portrait of MJ the bizarro come to mind – people disturbing in the extent of their their torment, the perversity of artifice that masks an adult’s anger and pain with childlike innocence, misplaced talent curdling into garden variety freak show material, the rank smell of false happiness.

Still. I loved Coney Island despite her flaws. I felt we understood each other. She’s moody and tortured, and I…well, you get the point.

You go to place like Coney expecting to come out on top, but everything I’ve ever know about anticipating amusement from a place designed for it suggests the opposite: you let go of your balloon and the sky won’t give it back, you’re too short to ride the Cyclone, you’re looking forward to beating last year’s record in the bottle toss and you strike out with your first throws. Maybe they should just tear down the boardwalk and put up those condos. Squash any false hopes of returning to the way were (cue Barbara Streisand). Or maybe, just maybe, everyone should go alone, stare longingly at the sea and stop trying to make things anything other than what they already are.

I really don't know what to think of anything at all.

Well New York, I’m smitten.  I’m taken with your energy and grandeur, your contradictions and unpredictability. I’m impressed with your ability to position yourself on the cusp of change yet remain unwaveringly true to yourself. In only a short while, you’ve surprised me with your ability to stay firmly grounded and aspire to lofty heights. You are constantly in flux, and I know I’ll never grow bored while we’re together.

But what I love most about you is the way you make me feel. I feel more sophisticated and downright ballsy in your presence.  And the best part? My anonymity = freedom = endless possibilities.

Still. I’m cautious about getting emotionally involved.  I’m sure countless women have sung your praises one week and bawled you out the next. Sure, you make me feel special – just like everyone else. Your keep-em-moving-next-in-line attitude can be crushing.

Lets face it.  You’ve got your issues (garbage, six-floor walk-ups, the subway, lack of space) and I’ve got mine (we’ll talk about that later).  So don’t think we’re home just because we’re living together.  Don’t think one of those fly-by-night romances. You’re going to have to earn my keep. Show me that what you offer is more than enough to compensate for what I’ve left behind.  Otherwise, I’ll pack my bags and find a new, softer city where I can find an apartment twice the size for half the price. It might be a tall order, but if anyone can deliver, you can.

One day you might be lucky enough to hear the words you long for: I simply can’t live without you.