Changing boroughs

After months–more like years, actually–of saying I’d never do it, of denying I had any interest in it, I went and did it. Two weeks ago. I moved to Brooklyn.

Countless friends and acquaintances can attest to countless denials on my part–“But it would be so much easier to get to work.” “No.”; “But we live here.” “No.”–and they have now earned the right to mock me for an extended, though ultimately finite, period of time. Here I sit, in a Brooklyn coffee shop around the corner from my Brooklyn apartment and a 10-minute walk away from my Brooklyn job. Ah! My resistance to becoming a cultural New York stereotype has bit me hard in the ass. Even my outfit today is Brooklyn.

I suppose it was inevitable–nearly all my friends live here, I work here, and I can’t afford lower Manhattan (or rather, I can’t bring myself to live in the closet space that passes for rooms when paying what I could theoretically afford in lower Manhattan). And all told, I think this borough and this new angle on life will be a good fit for me. That said, it’s also weird. Brooklyn is so…not Manhattan.

Which I guess is why so many people love it, and I hear them. Brooklyn’s got just as much character as Manhattan with (slightly) less noise. It’s got yuppies and hipsters and normal people, all in lesser, more manageable quantities (well maybe not the hipster part). It’s got thrift stores and flea markets; a giant, beautiful park and great bars; bikes and babies and beaches. It has Marty Markowitz, the only borough president I know by name (that was equally true before I lived here).

There are parallels, too, between where I live now (the Prospect/Crown Heights borderlands) and where I lived before (East Harlem). In both neighborhoods I have felt like something of an agent of gentrification, quietly noting the skin color of people I see on the street and tallying my own completely inaccurate demographic statistics. I would venture to guess that my current neighborhood is further changed than East Harlem was when I left it, as evidenced by the ridiculous number of independent coffee shops I can walk to, but the vibe is not entirely different.

Where are the food carts, though–the taco truck and the Hispanic families on the street selling grilled corn and horchata? Where is the traffic, the constant frenetic motion of people and cars? Where are the three pharmacies, one hardware store, one ghetto department store, and about seven fast food places within walking distance? The feeling of everything packed so tight together it’s somehow both uncomfortable and comforting, the roar of construction, the church bells, the stoop crew–I miss them all.

I know some neighborhoods in Brooklyn have these things, but most don’t. These are not the accoutrements of a Brooklyn life. They belong to a Manhattan life, one that is constantly going, barely allowing you a moment to feel the first warm rays of spring sun on your face. It’s true that sometimes Manhattan is too much–sometimes you just need to stop and stroll. But Brooklyn can also be too little.

I don’t think I’ve made a mistake in moving here. Friends tell me I will love it, and I sense that they’re right. Three years of East Harlem are not easily erased, though, and I can’t help but think that despite the pretentiousness, chaos, and overcrowding that threaten to engulf it, Manhattan may always be my one true love.