Looking east from here

I. East

When I was 24 I was still living in my home town. I’d never been away to college, and I was still living in the first apartment I rented when I moved out five years before. When events transpired to take me away from the mid-south and to Washington, DC I was thrilled. At the time it seemed like a bustling metropolis, and, compared to my hometown it was. But because Washington, DC is really just chunks of Maryland and Virginia a lot of the metropolis is just buildings; at the foot of those high rise towers there are not sidewalks covered with fruit stands and cafes. Outside of the National Mall, DC is mostly houses and apartments, parking structures and highways. I lived there twice, and found both times that you eventually run out of things to do. DC has no real “downtown”. Whatever I was looking for was just not there.

After the first stint in DC I moved slowly up the east coast, stopping in places like Norfolk and Richmond for periods before actually moving back to my hometown for a few years with my wife and family. But during the same period we started to visit New York City frequently.

It’s a trite tale, honestly. Romantic notions about New York City are nothing new, and I had a lot of them. I justified a lot of it by telling myself that I’d never really lived anywhere that hadn’t, at one point or another, been the capitol of the Confederacy—so anywhere would probably feel better to me. But even a decade ago there was a different feeling to the city. Covid really went off like a bomb there, and it accelerated all of the worst things that had already been taking place. Venture capital started flooding the market at an even greater rate, and a lot of neighborhoods were permanently altered by new buildings with higher rents. Higher rents push out all the things that bring people to the city in the first place. By the time we left NYC the first time I was struck by how much of it had started to feel like DC. All over, faceless five-over-ones had popped up like weeds.

We moved to NYC at what turned out to be the start of Covid, left briefly and bought a house in what I can truly say is the most awful place I have ever lived, and then came back to NYC (as so many people do) out of sheer frustration.

Reports of New York City’s death will always float around. We all know it isn’t “dead” as such; people will always live in the space it occupies, and there will always be those who love it. Hell, I love it the way I love a friend who borrowed twenty bucks, won’t pay it back because they’re “broke”, and just bought beer while you watched them do it. There are still experiences to be had there that are unlike anything on the earth, but over the last year we found ourselves having to dig for them, like we did in DC. Gone are the days when you could leave your apartment and, agendaless, present yourself to the city. Doing so used to mean a dark bar, a baseball game, a cheap but credible slice, and a ferry ride. Along the same route now there are fifteen Chipotle locations, ten places selling weird pastries with hour long lines, and cabs outnumbered ten-to-one by Ubers. Depending on what you want out of life, this might be perfect for you. It was not for us.

Still, walking the Brooklyn Promenade is one of my favorite things in the world. Or Midtown at 6am, the forthcoming energy of the day hanging in the air like a coiled spring. Even some of the more contrived places in New York are ones I love. The Little Island is admittedly a very expensive tourist trap, but beautiful in its way. Autumn in New York makes one feel glad to be alive, so much so that it’s the subject of untold dozens of songs and movies. Though New York has the power to intoxicate, it doesn’t need you. In New York, you can be replaced. The crowds that make you feel connected to some larger community are also a reminder that someone wants the apartment that you hate, and will take it when you’re gone.

Your favorite things will not always stay the same. Eventually your favorite band, movie, or book won’t resonate the way it used to. Or worse, you’ll find that it’s beloved by people you don’t relate to, alienating you from it against your will. It’s definitely sad when that happens, but in a world full of bands, books, and movies there could be a new favorite around the corner.

II. West

The first time I came to California was only seven years ago. I was sent by an employer to San Francisco, and instantly loved it. San Francisco feels at times like New York, at least in its downtown corridor. As you move out from the center things start looking decidedly more like California—cactus gardens and gingerbread houses, alongside miles of unbroken Pacific coastline. It isn’t all fragrant breezes and mezcal in the afternoon, though. As with all big cities there is suffering and poverty beneath the surface. But San Francisco has a charm that is really all its own. My wife and I returned a year later just for a vacation, and again it cemented my feelings for the place.

I was still doubtful about southern California, though. I’m an overweight guy from the south in his forties. No one wants me to move to Los Angeles for anything. It has a downtown that is virtually ignored by all Angelenos, and legendary traffic choking every canyon and valley. No one walks, and the sunburned populace can do nothing but audition for Vick’s commercials and become Scientologists. Right? Right?

My wife convinced me that LA might be worth looking at.