I was exiting the Megabus in front of Penn Station at 1 a.m. Saturday when the words of Jay-Z’s omnipresent “Empire State of Mind” came blasting out of a bodega. “Now you’re in New York, there’s nothing you can’t do … now you’re in New York, these streets will make you feel brand new.”
I realize hearing “Empire State of Mind” playing in New York is kind of like hearing “We Are Penn State” in Beaver Stadium, but I couldn’t help feeling a bit giddy. I moved from New York City to State College nearly four years ago, and while I definitely consider Happy Valley home, my second home—the place where our first child was born—will always be New York.
During the weekend people asked me the same question I still hear all the time in State College: Do you miss New York? It’s a complicated question. I miss my friends, and the fact that I can’t just pop by when one of them really needs me. And I actually miss the crazy people who spend their days riding subways and regaling strangers with their nonsensical monologues. (While riding the 6 train Saturday one of my fellow passengers began screaming about people who contend that Obama is a Muslim, then called himself a Columbian chihuahua. You just don’t get that kind of entertainment on a CATA bus.)
I miss the restaurants, especially the ones that serve Bloody Marys with slices of French Toast as thick as phone books. In 48 hours, I dined on pizza with arugula and stracciatella, poached eggs with bacon, spinach and field mushrooms, and an amazing egg cream (the last item was purchased at a shop that also sold newspapers and $5 sunglasses). I came home with a half dozen pumpkin loaves from my favorite New York City café, Ciao for Now, and a bar of artisan chocolate from a Brooklyn candy shop. If the Megabus had a mini-fridge, I would have brought back more than that.
Being back made me realize what I don’t miss. I don’t miss feeling like money is falling out of my pocket while I’m walking down the street. (Those treats don’t come cheap.) I don’t miss the logistical nightmare that often unfolds when you’re trying to get, say, from the Upper West side to the East Village. My cross-town bus crawled to a stop after a parade—which one, I couldn’t say; in New York, they all look the same to me—took over the streets, and I was nearly an hour late to meet a friend for lunch. I don’t miss the pigeons and the grating sound of their wings flapping. And I don’t miss the concrete jungle that Jay-Z alludes to in his song. Don’t get me wrong, many of New York’s buildings are beautiful, but after living in State College for four years, I’m spoiled by the color green.
So here I am back in the house we never could have afforded in New York, a few steps away from an exceptional elementary school that wouldn’t have been as easy to come by there.
Not exactly the makings of a Jay-Z song, but pretty good nonetheless.
