There’s a line I often throw out, hoping it might confer some sort of immediate social kudos: “I grew up in New York.” I’ve been aware of this meet-and-greet Tourette’s for some time now. My closest friends are now immune to it, walking by me mid-flow and rolling their eyes. Excitedly, I anticipate the logical next step, grateful for my conversational partner’s (apparent) enthusiasm. Oh really, cool!
Whereabouts in New York? Manhattan? This is my cue. Bring on the sickly stuff. What I miss about New York… New Yorkers are so [insert adoring reminiscence]! Yes, all in all I did only live there between the ages of three and seven. My claim to be native is embarrassing. However, for all those whom I’ve ever locked into my soliloquy… I promise, I mean well. My over-enthusiasm is the inevitable result of a few magical years in an animated city that transformed my childhood into a moving picture book. I was incredibly lucky to have spent so much time in New York.
I went back this summer. This wasn’t my first time back in the US of A, but it was my first time in NYC as a semi-responsible adult all on my own. I’m all too aware that my romanticism of New York bypasses a lot of real city life. When I lived there, I spent my first six months in America living in a hotel. I thought New York was all about after school ice creams, 5th Avenue perfumes and West Side delis. It was all one big toy shop, one big playdate. I’d lived there but I knew nothing about what real life there was actually like.
My bus then got caught in a traffic jam. The driver opened the doors, “We ain’t going anywhere, Obama’s in town.” Later, I realised that Obama’s posse were all piled into that hotel, my very temporary childhood ‘home’. The Waldorf Astoria. Hundreds of NYPD officers crowded my view. That was a bit weird. The set of my fairytale childhood belonged to a more confusing, present world. But then, the magic of the city brought me out in goosebumps once again as I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge towards the famous skyline. I left New York less than a year before September 11th. My Dad and I used to drive out of the city, joking as the World Trade Centre disappeared behind closer buildings. Sometimes, one tower would eclipse the other as we rounded the ring road. We would laugh at the ridiculousness.
This time, New York had filled the gap in the skyline with the new Freedom Tower, or ‘One World Trade’. The next day I saw the site for Ground Zero’s new Westfield shopping centre. My love for New York hasn’t faded at all, de-
spite realising that the place itself is far more complicated than the fairytale I remember.
