I’m an in-betweener-- I’m a southern-friend Yankee. I love the city: the energy of Washington Square and the glamour of Fifth Avenue and the rush of the #9 train and the stateliness of the skyscrapers and the splendor of Central Park and the chic youthful energy of Williamsburgh, Brooklyn and the majesty of the Statue of Liberty as you pass the island from the Staten Island Ferry (my hometown)—this is the city of dreams, the gateway to the Land of Hope and Plenty, the boisterous, dreamlike, scruffy wonderland NYC.
And yet. New York has its reputation (its denizens, its scenery)—definitely pretty gruff, pretty aggressive, entirely coarse. This place (these people) will run you over if you don’t’ step aside, will knock you down if you’re not alert, not sharp, not rough-around-the-edges. I’m too sensitive for this world, sometimes. Partially it’s my natural demeanor, but certainly it’s also a reflection of having spent my last 20-some-odd years in the South. The leisurely, genteel south. The summer-porch, sweet tea, soothing South. The laid back, mostly polite, good-natured charming South. The atmosphere certainly feels less hectic, the people certainly bark less and chortle (rather than snicker) more. And oh my, those creamy cheesy grits!
So I live in both worlds, not quite a full member of either but comfortable enough to meander, interact, appreciate the rhythms and cadences of both. I’ll take the tumultuous sights and sounds of NYC, the raw energy of a metropolitan splendor, if I can also have (in delicate balance) the wisteria and white-moss clad oak trees, the gentle midnight cricket hum of ol’ Gainesville.
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