Editor’s note: This commentary is by Elayne Clift, who writes about women, culture and social issues from Saxtons River.
[W]hen I lived in New York in the 1960s the city was full of young women like me, secretaries searching for excitement and independence before becoming — please God — Scarsdale matrons, or in the case of traveling Brits — whose accents rendered them tough competition — Gerrard’s Cross.
Those were the heady days of Mayor John Lindsay, Barbara Streisand doing “Funny Girl,” and stars like Keir Dullea, who lived in my building on East 76th Street. My friends and I spent evenings in the standing-room-only backs of theaters or in neighborhood bistros, weekends biking to the bowery or shopping Bloomingdales, and a good part of our workday on the phone to each other. It was bliss and although times have changed, I’m an inveterate New Yorker still.
Thanks to a friend who lived in the East Side’s Tudor City and now my Brooklyn-based daughter, I still spend time in the city. It remains serendipitous, its neighborhoods lively and distinctive, its bistros enchanting, the museums and theaters thrilling, cheerful Lyft drivers at the ready. On a recent visit, one of them hoisted my heavy suitcase into the trunk of his car.
“Careful!” I warned. “That thing’s a ball-buster!” He laughed heartily, looking at me with the appreciation that macho men convey when they encounter feisty broads.
That same weekend I encountered a rebbe on the subway from Brooklyn to Manhattan, having bid my daughter goodbye. “Give Esther my love,” I said, referring to her friend.
The train was a microcosm of New York City. An elderly man with an impressive white beard worked the car, handing out literature promising we could all be saved. Asians, Hispanics, blacks and young professionals looked doubtful. Across from me sat a Hassidic man, whiskers framing his face. He smiled, mouthing “Good Shabbas.” I smiled back. Then he offered me a Hebrew newsletter. When he exited the train he repeated, “Good Shabbas,” tipping his black hat.
“Good Shabbas,” I replied. “But how did you know I was Jewish?”
“Esther,” he said. “A Jewish name.” I laughed, because Esther’s real name is Emily and she’s a black Catholic. I called her Esther because my husband never remembers her name and calls her Edith.
That weekend my daughter and I had another “only in New York” experience. Exiting the theater late at night, we spotted a corner deli. I suggested we buy bagels for breakfast. Neither of us noticed that everyone working there was Asian.
“We’d like some bagels,” I said. “Takeout.”
“Bagels?” he said, like an incredulous Peter Sellers. “Who is baking bagels in night? Bagels we are baking in morning. This is American deli!”
Conventional wisdom has it that New York is a tough place. The prevailing myth is that it’s unlivable, although an exciting place to visit. Those of us who’ve lived there know that non-New Yorkers have it backwards: New York is a great place to live but I’m not sure I’d want to visit.
Someone asked me once why New Yorkers bemoan never having sufficient time. “An hour is an hour! Why do New Yorkers always say they don’t have enough time?”
Perhaps it’s because New Yorkers live life in the fast lane, prompting the expression “in a New York minute.” Living there means scurrying around like a mouse in a maze. New York life is inherently frenetic.
Many New Yorkers also live in spaces the size of a suburban garage. More often than not, they share digs with at least one other person. They travel on clogged subways and an “office” is likely a 12×12 cubicle, reached via packed elevator. Hordes of people generate cacophonous “white noise.” No wonder New Yorkers “don’t have time” to recuperate from demands of daily life. But could claustrophobia add to clock issues?
Don’t get me wrong: There’s nothing like strolling across Central Park at dusk, gallery hopping on Madison Avenue, or relaxing in a Brooklyn coffee house. What compares to Zabar’s when you’re hungry? Where else will you find such bountiful cultural events?
The reality is that New York is a city of neighbors who care about each other, and communities bound by differences and shared difficulties. It’s home for multitudes whether they’re Park Avenue investors, Park Slope artists, or Bronx River Parkway immigrants. Unique as it is because of its landmarks, diversity, and place in the cosmos, New York is the island on which no man, or woman, is alone.
On a visit to New York after 9/11, I stayed in a hotel with friends. During a morning coffee stop, we saw Anderson Cooper. When I lived there, I saw Ethel Kennedy, Salvador Dali and Christopher Reeves all in one typical day. Later, we watched police cars scream down 42nd Street, then stop at a red light. I asked a cop what was going on.
“Business as usual,” he said. “They do it every night since 9/11. The precincts send in a coupla cars to show we’re ready. Everyone’s on to them now so no one pays attention. It’s no fun anymore.”
“Only in New York.” Long may it surprise and delight us.
