Lobbying

Emmett's babysitter asked me a few months ago if I was okay with having him play in the lobby during the cold winter months. It had never occurred to me that Emmett would want to hang out in the lobby of our building, but once he started doing it, I began to notice just how social our lobby is.

The lobby is the New York substitute for a back yard. Having grown up in the suburbs of Chicago, I would have thought that the lobby was a poor substitute. And in certain situations (a warm summer night lit by fireflies, for example) I'm sure that's true. But hanging out in the lobby with a 15 month old baby is surprisingly fun.

There are frequently other parents down there with their kids--everyone has a little cabin fever by 5 PM on a winter's evening. There is our doorman, Hector, who is always willing to have an impromtu game of peekaboo with Emmett. People are coming home from work and heading out to stock up on evening groceries.

When I was a kid, my parents made friends with our next door neighbors--George and Lois. They were an older couple with an above ground pool. On Saturday afternoons, my brother and I would swim until we were blue and pruney. And my parents would sit out on lawn chairs with George and Lois and drink "slush"--George's special, alcohol-and-ice-laden concoction. (This all makes my parents and neighbors sound like lushes which they assuredly were not.)

I am tempted to try my own rendition of slush and bring it down to the lobby to share with the other parents and nannies. I do not think that this would go over well, but I like to imagine it: Sitting on lawn chairs in the lobby drinking slush under the watchful eye of the building security cameras while the kids squabble and putter and play.

The Greatest City in the World?

One time, when we were preparing to land at Laguardia, the flight attendant gave us the usual landing instructions and then said the following: "If you're lucky enough to have a zip code here in New York City to call home, then welcome back. If not, we hope you enjoy your stay." I rolled my eyes at my husband who looked both amused and worried that I might leave my seat and clobber the flight attendant with her microphone.

Many Americans have hometown pride. My middle school friend Megan used to sign her letters: "Don't Mess with Texas." And when I was in college in Minnesota, many of my California-born classmates would wax rhapsodic about the-beauty-that-is-San-Francisco. But I have never met a more aggressive set of chauvinists than New Yorkers. In particular, they love to repeatedly remind you that "New York is the greatest city in the world."

Mind you, this is not an opinion. This is a FACT. Water=wet. Poop=smelly. New York=Greatest City in the World. Also, realize that New York (according to New Yorkers) is not only the greatest city in the United States. It is also the greatest city in the WORLD. Are you fond of Seattle? Chump. Adore Paris? Fool. Because New York is, duh, New York.

I think New Yorkers like to persistently tell you that New York is the greatest partly because they are insecure. If I constantly remind myself that I'm living in the greatest city in the world, I will feel better about spending $5000 a month on a dinky apartment that overlooks a con-ed power station and has a kitchen full of roaches.

The other thing that drives New Yorkers to indoctrinate you is provincialism. Many New Yorkers know astonishingly little about the rest of their own country. To wit, I was chatting with one of my residents on my internal medicine rotation who grew up in NYC and went to college and med school on the tiny island of Manhattan (and was now doing residency there) and he relayed this story to me:

So I'm walking down the street with my girlfriend last night and we walk by Bryant Park and they are showing a movie outside! And there are all these people there watching. And I thought: 'Oh man, only in New York.'

It was all I could do not to laugh openly. Apparently he had never been to Chicago, Washington, D.C. or L.A. Apparently, he had never seen Cinema Paradiso. And apparently he had never heard of that former bastion of rural American life: THE DRIVE IN.

Now before you decide to send me hate mail, let me remind you that I like New York. I just don't like to be told what my opinions should be. So New Yorkers, stop passing around the Kool Aid and realize that New York is the greatest city for YOU. The rest of the world can make up its own mind.

River Views

When you hunt for an apartment in New York, one of the prime selling points can be a view. "Skyline view," "bridge view," and "river view" will all bump up your rent by a few hundred bucks a month.

Given that you can also find yourself with a view of the air shaft or brick wall or some other grim sight, I guess that a river view is a big step up. But I am a New York anomaly in that I am not a fan of the sweeping vista of skyline or bridge. In fact, I am a view hater.

When we first moved to New York, we lived in my med school's student housing which had panoramic views of the Hudson River and the GW bridge (albeit through grimy windows that had not been cleaned since the 1970s and could not be washed from inside the apartment).

There were definitely days when an incoming rainstorm made for a spectacular sight like this one:


But those days were few and far between. Most of the time, I hated the view of the Hudson. Why? Well, my view also included the unrelenting traffic of the West Side Highway. With the highway and its never ending thrum of traffic came a fine layer of pollution that wafted through my not-so-weather proof window, aggravated my asthma, and inked itself onto my walls in the outline of my furniture like some sort of murder-victim-in-chalk rendering.

But I also hated the blinding, setting sun every day as it reflected off the river and slowly baked our front room and faded all our furniture and CDs. And I hated the lumpen, architecturally uninteresting apartment buildings across the river in New Jersey.

Most of all, the wide expanse out my window made me feel lonely: All that concrete and steel and water and highway.

I have a theory that people who like a daily dose of skyscrapers and bridges like to envision themselves masters of the universe, and the view helps support that fantasy. Personally, I have no need to be a master of the universe. Don't get me wrong, I like to look clever and sharp and all, but I don't need to feel like the lord and master of all I survey.

The views we have now from our second story apartment in Brooklyn are much, much more to my taste. Out the front windows you can see a few trees, some grass, and the apartment building across the street. Sometimes, at night, I will look out my kitchen window and see the couple across the street also preparing a meal. I can see kids on bikes and people walking dogs and the West Indian ladies in my building taking a van to church on Sunday.

And the best is the view of the middle school and its basketball court out my son's window in the back of the apartment. Monday through Friday the kids play hoops and shout and scream and create a general ruckus. Thankfully, Emmett can nap right through it and loves to watch the "kis" and "bahba" (kids, basketball) when he is awake.

Better than being master of the universe, in my view, is being part of a community. And the view from my windows remind me everyday that I live in a community that I love.

An Ode to the Bialy

Native New Yorkers who move to Chicago, Seattle, Miami, or other places that are NOT NEW YORK tend to bitch reflexively about how bad the bagels are in the rest of the country. While I'll be the first to admit that Lender's Bagels are putrid, I would also argue that moving to New York in 2004 wasn't an ascension into bagel heaven. Yes, H&H makes good bagels, but I was able to buy decent runners-up in local delis in Chicago and L.A. on a regular basis.

But a few months ago, I discovered a New York breakfast item that I have never seen anywhere else: the bialy. Actually, I managed to live in New York for three and a half years and never stumbled on a bialy. The only reason I bought one was that my local coffee shop was fresh out of plain bagels one morning.

Sweet nirvana! Bialys are thinner and saltier than bagels. And the middle has a little bit of onion that imparts flavor without having that burnt, too onion-y taste that onion bagels do. Where have you been all my life, dear bialy? It turns out that they're pretty common in New York: The cafe in the office building where I worked last year sold them. My local grocery store sells them. Who knew? Apparently, a lot of people, since there is a wikipedia article about this breakfast delicacy.

Now, I worry about what I will do when we eventually move away from New York. What will I do for breakfast?

Apparently, I will have to bitch about how you can't get bialys in places that are NOT NEW YORK.

In which I find myself unemployed and blogging

If someone had told me 15 years ago that I would find myself living in Brooklyn taking care of my fifteen month old son full time, I think I would have scoffed. But here I am: a newly minted MD who, instead of going straight into residency, found myself stepping off the fast track to spend time with my family.

While medicine and motherhood are my vocations, I also have a passion for urban life. In the past 15 years I've lived for a year or more in Chicago, L.A., Washington DC, Palo Alto (not really a city I know, but humor me) and New York. As you can probably tell from the title of my blog, my feelings about New York are mixed. It is a difficult place to live--overpriced, cramped, and often annoying. But it also has pockets of charm, especially in Brooklyn which I have come to love.

So I decided to begin a chronicle of my life in New York, warts and all.