A relationship with a new city is like a relationship with a new guy. At first, you compare a lot -- my ex had better nicknames for me; he made the bed in the morning. My ex was the one for me, and now I'm just marking time before becoming that old lady in line at the bagel shop who talks to her slippers.
You feel in your bones the sudden drop in comfort level with this new entity. You have to close the door when you pee. You have to explain who people are when you're gossiping about them. You have to take it from the top. It's a tedious process. And you wonder why we all know one of those couples who should have broken up a long time ago before they got in a rut and furnished it at IKEA.
Now, as for my comparison, settling into a new city can be similarly jarring. I'm not sure which I've done more of, but I know I'm not the only one with a trail of broken leases as long as her trail of broken relationships.
I've dug up and planted and dug up and replanted more roots than an obsessive-compulsive gardener.
And now I'm at it again, trying to make a go of it with this slick Pat Riley of a city called Manhattan. And as always, the relationship got off to a rough start, and I wanted nothing more than to go home. And my new therapist gave me her home number. And I didn't know if I had lost my ability to start over.
It's been six months since I relocated for work, "taking a break" from the love of my life, Los Angeles.
I didn't want to love again, but it turns out we're adaptable creatures. The other day, someone asked where to get a good cheesecake, and out of my mouth, smooth as ricotta, came "Junior's in Brooklyn has the best. And they ship." And I let myself feel pretty good for knowing this, and for passing as a local more often than not, and for saying "Brooklyn" like I could tell you how to get there on the 4.
This city has won me over like a guy you go on a mercy date with but end up marrying because he remembers how you take your coffee and what size shoe you wear. It's the little things that slowly weasel their way into your heart, that make you feel at home.
I have the name of a Chinese delivery place in my cellphone and need only speed dial my way to a dumpling delivery.
I hail a cab as easily as I used to parallel park.
I could tell you what cast members have been replaced in "Hairspray" on Broadway. I can find Broadway by foot.
Now I love my Lakers like Shaq loves his Escalade. Still, there's something about finding your seat at Madison Square Garden that makes you feel like you've got this town wired. Sadly, you have to watch the Knicks once you get there, but if I can learn to love this city, maybe I can at least duty date its basketball team.
On the right night, I can climb out of my 400-square-foot apartment and sit on my fire escape and look down the block at doormen leaning on awning posts. I can watch little doggies in little sweaters strolling the Upper East Side, a neighborhood immortalized not only by "Breakfast at Tiffany's" but also by famous fictional resident, Carrie Bradshaw.
I know how to describe a location as being "on 67 between one and two," instead of saying "on 67th Street between First and Second avenues." I know that Central Park starts on 59. Like I said, these are small things, but like the small apartments and small grocery store aisles here in the Big Apple, they grow on you.
Maybe that's the only way to fall for a place as hard and humid and expensive and compressed as this one. You endure the hard parts so you can experience the simple pleasure of saying Brooklyn like you mean it.
How do you go from wanting to hurl yourself off the Staten Island Ferry to thinking you might just want to dock here for awhile? You let yourself. And having done so, I'm starting to think it might just be that simple with relationships, too. And here is the most deeply buried lead in the history of singles columns: I've got what some might call a "new boyfriend" in this new city (and by "some" I mean people without a crippling fear of commitment).
And that's how I can tell you relocation is something that happens inside. It happens when you make up your mind to stop expecting a parade down Fifth Avenue and just let yourself stop and smell the toasted nuts on the corner.
Teresa Strasser writes from Manhattan where she is a feature reporter for Fox's "Good Day Live." She's on the Web at www.teresastrasser.com.
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