|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Musings Index>NYC vs. SFI'm Always Asked about the Differences between NYC and SFI wrote this piece a few years ago shortly after moving to San Francisco from New York City. It was my answer to an oft asked question, "What do you think the differences are between NYC and SF?" I stuck it out in San Francisco despite rolling black-outs, a dismal job market, and distance from good friends and family. Then the events of Sept. 11, 2001 left me feeling far from home. So when the opportunity arose, I relocated back to the New York area. Segments: Can't Help but Compare SFO to NYCIt took me 105 minutes to drive home from work today. Par for the course. As I approached SF, the summer-indicating fog was clearly visible crawling over the hills west of 101N. SF fog fascinates me as I imagine snow does for people from the South. It's like The Blob. A living, changing being from a distance; a wet mist when you're in its bowels. Between the fog and the planes taking off from Santa Clara airport and SFO, I have a lot to entertain me during my often dead-stopped commute. Approaching home, I clearly heard the soothing groans of the Golden Gate Bridge's fog horn. I love that horn. It lulls me to sleep and reminds me of the Hudson's commercial barge traffic I'd hear from my UWS apartment in NYC. My brief career with Andersen Consulting taught me how to adapt, making a home where I was assigned. SF just happens to be a much better assignment than Paramus NJ, albeit without per diems. With that said, I can't help but compare my life in SF to my life in New York. And others seem to be interested—well, it seems so because they always ask.(Top) Sensory Input Drives PulseI’ve never operated a jackhammer. I’ve also never tripped on magic mushrooms. Both of these experiences I’ve never had remind me of experiences I have had. New York City is like what I imagine operating a jackhammer is like. It’s jolting, loud, and you have to be strong to reach your goals. San Francisco is like ‘shrooms. It’s nothing much to look at but makes everything around you beautiful and mellow. My New York City, the well-defined isle of Manhattan, is dense and intense, tall and pointy. The reflective glass buildings sparkle in the sun. At night, some corners are better lit than during the day. It is wide avenues evenly crisscrossed by streets revealing life reaffirming, blinding sunrises heading East and deep-orange sunsets heading West. In one 4-train subway ride from Wall St. to the Upper East side, I’d be poked by the abhorrently repulsive erect pervert sardined to my back, exasperated by deaf-person-in-the-making gangster rap rhythm leaking beyond the perimeters of a personal walkman, then strangely soothed by the even, sleep-inducing heat and clunk-clunk clunk-clunk rhythm of the train racing up ancient rails on express stretches. New York’s pulse and rhythm seeps into your body. Like a jackhammer it resonates a muffled jarring vibration that begins the minute you step out the door in the morning until your head hits the pillow, while the roaring West Side highway dimly hums in the distance. The rhythm and pulse of New York drove my energy while simultaneously draining it. That is why my San Francisco seems so quiet. It’s a vast area, the Bay Area, covering hundreds of miles of water, coast line, rolling hills, and business-campus-littered valleys constrained only by the Pacific Ocean on the West tumbling all the way up the Sierra mountains in the East. San Francisco is surprisingly beautiful. Not the city itself, but its surroundings. Never tiring vistas of sunbeams piercing dramatic clouds appear around every highway corner, through every tunnel, and across every bridge. During my hellish daily commute, scenes that look like the inside cover of my grandmother’s bible mellow me out. San Francisco’s lack of borders seems to dilute its energy, replacing it with conformity that generates hollow pleasantries and meaningless friendliness. That which would be a self-preserving use of swears, car horns, and passive-aggressive chin-to-chin posturing in New York, is frowned upon and reprimanded in San Francisco. There is no pulse to San Francisco because it’s shroomin.(Top) The Drunk, Gump, and GeorgeNew York is also a blur of faces. Almost everyone is accomplished or hilarious or bizarre—usually a competing blend of each. So those who stand out are true characters. The first time I saw the homeless man who’d been framed, I nearly lost my drink through my nose laughing. I was dining al fresco at a restaurant when he approached us, staggering drunk holding a huge gold-gilded frame around his head and upper body. "I’ve been framed, help me out lady, I’ve been framed! I don’t deserve this treatment, I’ve been framed!" He made me laugh so hard, he earned panhandle money. I’m sure that if I spend some summer evenings on the Upper-West-Side, I’d see him again for I saw him many times performing the same routine after our first encounter. But it only works the first time. The Crows too are only-in-NY characters. They're a troop of very talented and entertaining puppeteers who perform almost every Sunday lip-sinking Motown in Central Park near Belvadere Fountain. I tried to go see them any summer weekend I was in town because with them I could openly sing in public. In contrast yet interwoven, the Crows had a protege—a tall, thin, oddly striking white guy—who gave me bad vibes. Sunday nights while eating my ordered-in Chinese food, I always expected to see him on the news involved in a twisted child-abduction story. None of the Crows performers, including the suspect, ever spoke to the crowd out of character, but for some reason the suspect never fit in. He had ratty orange cat puppet and performed dark, slave-era songs. The suspect was the antithesis of Crow innocence and fun. Jackson Johnson, an elderly, tall, gray-topped black man, is a jazz and blues singer who self-promotes his music in the streets spring, summer, and fall weekends. His persistence, sheer strength and stamina are amazing. He pushes up and down upper-West-side avenues a dolly rigged with club-sized speakers powered by a generator, hocking his own CD collection. I think I even saw him once on the East side. His music is loud but pleasant, melodious, heart-lifting. During any summer weekend, I would hear him first, then see him four or five times a day while running errands. He seems to work 9am ‘til midnight in 95 degree weather, literally pushing his wares, making his own success. My former doorman was a kind, Forrest-Gump-like dim man. He spoke English and Spanish, and was a bit nosy. A basically harmless and obsequious man, Anthony occasionally spout, "Leslie, is this man the one you were asking about?" A confusing conversation that occurred in my building’s lobby upon Anthony’s return from a two-week vacation: Me – Hi Anthony! How was your vacation? People in New York pay extra for doorman service. Yet, more often than not, the doormen hired to secure us against the New York wackos are pretty much wacko themselves. But, Anthony was as much a daily delight as my local Korean grocer was a daily frustration. Nearly every day for more than a year I patroned that corner-block store buying diet coke, cigarettes, beer, or snacks. Each day the always-on-duty owner behaved as if he’d never seen me before. No hellos; instead suspicious looks, and abrupt check-out—"Ness!" Adjacent to my Korean grocer was my local bagel store (a really good one too – a sign of a great neighborhood). At least with the bagel guy I’d have a sense of recognition. The attendant would attempt to complete my regular-order sentence, "a sesame bagel with veg-e-ta-ble cream cheese, please." Or at least I think he was trying to guess my regular order, because he’d turn his back and shout something in Spanish while I was still mid-sentence. And, most of the time, upon arrival behind my desk at work, I’d unwrap the right order. So he was trying. Given that I forked over hard cash to the Korean and bagel guy every day, resulting in as much face-time with them as with evening-doorman Anthony, the fact that dim-witted Anthony remembered my name and tried to remember the eligible bachelors in my building was worth the nominal extra rent dollars. I do have a lovely local grocer here in SF, George and his wife, Mrs. George. Not quite a Korean deli, they do provide the staples: wine AND beer, soda, cigarettes, and frozen dinners. George, heavily accented (Greek? Arabic?) acts like my local godfather (not the mafia kind). He greets me with a bellowing "Hel-loo!" and concludes our transactions with a heartfelt, "You have a good evening, you." George remarks when it’s been a while since I’ve been in, and my work colleagues considered calling him when I unexpectedly didn’t show. I send my laundry, dry cleaning, and packages to George’s since he stays open until 9pm (late in SF). No worries, no charges. I know his entire young family, their hobbies, their cars, where they live, and their college aspirations. If all of my local merchants in NYC were as kind and caring as George, I wouldn’t have left. In my list of NYC characters, I can’t omit the Columbus Circle rat. One day while waiting for a train, I saw a rat as big as a cat strolling down the platform across the tracks. He had a Metrocard in his mouth. I laughed out loud – look! Templeton! Even the rats need to pay Subway fare. That rat brazenly strutted his stuff despite the brightly colored posters plastered on every support-beam warning humans to stay out of the tracks because pesticide had recently been sprayed. No one else in the subway found it as amusing, so that day I was classified by some as bizarre. San Francisco doesn’t have the same character. I’ve heard people refer to some SF-standards: streamer man, the financial district poet, the elderly lady twins. But the fact that everyone knows of these people makes them less exotic. In my own tony neighborhood, there is an elderly homeless man I’ve dubbed sitting-man. But all he does is sit. Here…then there. Never talks. Never makes trouble. I probably named him out of habit. The Bush Man of Fisherman’s Wharf is pretty amusing ala NYC’s Black Crows. He’s this guy, or several guys, who dress in camouflage, crouched close to the ground holding shrubbery in front of them. When unsuspecting tourists stroll by, he jumps up roaring, "Arrggh!", startling the bejeesus out of them, quickening their step. Hours of amusement, but harmless. Whereas you’re constantly tripped up by the crazies and super-aggressives in NYC, there don’t see to be any nails that need to be banged down here in SF.(Top) Rides, Pads, Crime, and Being StupidIn every city, the personal lifestyle choices you make define you to strangers. For New Yorkers, it’s (in rank order) your neighborhood, your mode of transportation, and your job. For…well, there is no term—San Franciscans? SFer’s? Whatever. It’s your car, your weekend activities, and your area code subdefined by your neighborhood (which defaults your sexual preference). New York subways are for the fast-moving masses, buses for the elderly, cabs for those with disposable income, black Lincoln car service for late-night bankers and lawyers, personal automobiles for affluent families, limos for the rich and famous, and $100 a day rental cars for those who escape on weekends. If you can afford the time and money to maintain a car in the City, no one cares what kind. I commuted via subway, walked, and increasingly took cabs. It’s all about transportation. In SF, it’s all about your ride. Black BMW: dot.com lemming flashing money; the real joke is that it’s leased. Blue Porsche Boxter usually accompanied by personal plates ("TVM=NPV", "YAHOO", "DOT.COM" are just a few I’ve noticed): single guy dot.commer. Audi A4: girlfriend of the blue Porsche. RUV: likes to bike/surf/ski on weekends. Volvo Wagon: a progressive family or people from the East Coast who made a safe but bad decision because there are no Swedish mechanics out here. Antique car, meaning anything pre-1990 of which there are a lot out here (no salt on the roads), fun VW vans, I-want-one ‘67 ‘Stangs and Corvairs: you’re a long-time resident. I drive a nothing-special-about-it-except-its-close-to-pink-color Honda Accord. When people ask—which they always do—what I drive, the resulting response is, "Oh". I've recently noticed a decrease in the obviously-leased car population. Unlike friends who boldly chose edgy neighborhoods in NYC where they could experience the City, I sought safe neighborhoods with commuting convenience. Their decisions left them gingerly walking through crack viles, hypo needles, and around unique heights of crazies, then looking for new apartments in the upper East Side. So my first apartment in NYC was in Yorkville where I got robbed. I returned from work at 1am Friday night of Labor Day weekend, schlepping up the five-flight walk-up 25 lbs. of advertising campaign pitch materials and laptops required for a business trip the following Tuesday. I was exhausted and bitter because I was supposed to be at the NJ Shore with my friends. Huffing and puffing, on the verge of tears, my key wouldn’t make the bolt lock open. I wondered if this was my landlord’s twisted vengeance for my filing a complaint with the Board-of-whatever about my two-month lack of hot water. After 15 minutes of increasing frustration and full-on balling, I finally flung open the door to find my hovel ransacked. In a way, I had to admire the determination and professionalism of my thieves. They targeted my poorman’s less-than-400 sq. foot apartment scoring more than $10K of easily fenced goods: jewelry, camera equipment, and consumer electronics. They snagged the real pearls (my birthstone) including a sentimental ring my deceased grandmother had given me, as well as my cherished diamond earrings, a combination graduation gift from my mother and post-college-paycheck treat to myself. They left the fake pearls, and all of the silver jewelry. (Subsequently, my girlfriend, Susan, gave me probably one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received, a replacement pearl ring for the one I mourned. I don’t wear it often because guys mistake it for engagement ring—bad for a single woman—but its sentimental value is as great as its predecessor.) The cops arrived then finger-dusted. Who knew that my preference for wood furniture over chrome and glass would prevent criminal capture? The cops also gave me the warm-fuzzy information that several other top-floor apartments on my block had been broken into. Turns out that my transparently thin powder white friendly neighbor (I fed her cat when she was out of town and we occasionally had drinks in the hall) left the roof door open. She’d recently started dating a guy in a fifth floor apartment in the like and adjacent 19th century tenement building. She’d visit him by walking up then down the two roof flights rather than walk down then up the ten flights of stairs through the front doors. I insisted that the landlord install one of those alarm-crash-bars on the roof door inhibiting transparent-Margaret’s late-night booty-calls. She and I didn’t share too many friendly conversations afterwards. After the robbery and months of landlord struggle regarding my lack of hot water, I decided to move. I found a great apartment with French doors delineating the dining area and built-in living room bookcases on W. 72nd street between Broadway and West End Ave. An awesome neighborhood: express subway stop, HMV, GAP, close to the river, close to the Park, close to Lincoln Center. Its only fall back was a lack of good bagels and an abundance of explicit gay porn openly displayed on the corner newsstand. I passed the co-op board screening and was ecstatic about saying "bye-bye" to the 4-5-6 overcrowded and horrible subway line. The movers robbed me which led to being featured on major market TV—cool. I had asked for recommendations and got several estimates; the least expensive was $750 to move across town (less than two miles). With an English-speaking Italian-American Brooklynite, I signed a contract reserving the date and acknowledging the estimate. On move day, I sat in my packed apartment waiting nine hours for the movers. I called the Brooklyn guy no less than fifteen times. When the movers finally showed up, I called friends for back-up because I knew I was in trouble but, I had to move that day because the next tenants were moving in the next day. I was screwed. Here's how it went down:
Shortly after all that turmoil, my 72nd St. landlady had to sell her co-op, so I had to go. I had a nervous breakdown the day the movers arrived to get me out of that apartment. The stress of another move (caused by expense, inconvenience, and staying up too late drinking with a friend the night prior) in less than 18 months, and my fear of a similar moving experience as my last was too much, despite the fact that I had found an even better apartment. I paid a broker $3300 for 20 minutes of her time to secure my lovely apartment on West End Ave. at 98th St. That place was completely refinished, had a dishwasher, a remarkable view of the Hudson, doorman service, and was rent-regulated, so I kept it for a full year after I moved to SF. Shortly after I moved to the West side, I was pick pocketed on the 1-2-3 subway on my way to work—buh-bye wallet. The most memorable part of that experience was that it happened the morning of an important client meeting that required travel cash. It seemed far more an inconvenience than a crime. Robbed. Again. I’d been NYC hardened. No tears. I said it before I lived there, and I’ll say it now. If you live in NYC long enough (I was there for only five years), you WILL become a crime victim. Don’t believe anyone who says otherwise. They probably just forgot. When I moved to SF, I ignored my friends’ suggestions to live in the Mission where I could experience the diversity of SF. I’d had enough diversity in NYC. Safety wasn’t an issue because compared to NYC, all of SF seemed (and still seems) as safe as my mother’s apple-treed backyard. I wanted to be close to the Bay, pay $1500/month, and have access to parking. After four months of subletting from a friend while my belongings sat in $240/month storage, my criteria diminished to decent and $2000/month. A friend saw the "For Rent" sign. Three blocks from her house, ample street parking, the best apartment I’d seen thus far, friendly in-building landlady, back porch, six blocks from the Bay, $2000/month. I’ll take it! As I settled in Cow Hollow, I think I started leaving my door unlocked while I power-walked. That was until Methamphetamine-lady showed up at my door. She was my height but smaller, smartly dressed in a sundress, sweater, matching flats and purse. Meth-lady – May I use your phone? I was supposed to meet my sister at her house up
the street (pointing) but she’s not there. (Meth-lady goes into the bathroom, but instead of closing the door and doing what she has to do, she fusses with her hair in the mirror.) Me – I thought you needed to call your sister? (Thrusting the phone at her.) Here,
make your call because I have to eat dinner then leave. (Suddenly realizing that my wallet was in the living room with her while I was in the kitchen. Go to get it.) Meth-lady – I had to move out of my apartment. (Meth-lady approaches the back door to the porch.) Me – No! You have to go out front. This craziness went on for another ten minutes or so with Meth-lady asking me why she can’t stay in my apartment or why my "friend" couldn’t drive her to her car. Finally, I lose it. Me – You have to leave NOW! You’re making me nervous. I think you’re crazy! I think you’re trying to rob me! You MUST leave. I don’t know who you are. You have to GO. I grabbed her shoulders and forcibly walked her to her purse then out the front door, her protesting all the way. Meth-lady – Why can’t I wait for your friend? Why won’t she drive me to my car? I quickly locked the door, angry with myself for letting down my guard. I immediately tried to warn my landlady when I realized I didn’t have her phone number since I usually see her in person. I peeped through the blinds to see that Meth-lady was gone. Then stepped out to knock on my landlady’s door. Her boyfriend answered; the indoor-cat ran out; he was annoyed. He warned me that there was a couple working the neighborhood in a similar fashion. "Why’d you let a stranger in?" he asked. I went back to my apartment, shaken, then called my friend from home, Mark, who lives across town. He asked why I let a stranger in the house, then offered to come over, but it seemed unnecessary at that point. The following Monday, I carpooled with a colleague. I told him the story. He asked why I let a stranger into my apartment. When I described how fidgety she was, how she "looked" normal, but clearly wasn’t, he concluded she was on meth. Hence, "Meth-lady". I haven’t been robbed and my car hasn’t been stolen or vandalized. Towed, but not stolen. I demonstrated poor judgment, which I won’t repeat.(Top) Never Thought I'd Say This -- I Hate DrivingYou can't show poor judgment driving in SF because everyone else does. Driving and parking—watch out, because many driving frustrations are caused by people parking, and many parking frustrations are caused by others’ driving. SF's laissez-faire pedestrian attitude doesn’t help either. I hate to admit it, but the first thing I noticed while trying to negotiate the unnumbered streets (exasperated by Spanish names) here in the Bay Area is that the stereotype is true. Asians ARE horrible drivers. I don’t know why, I don’t know if it’s immigrants or American-born Asians, or both, but most of the time when I see someone doing something wacky on the road, it’s an Asian. Eventually I noticed a more encompassing trend of bad drivers. I too have been guilty of some of the following. Cell phones. Big problem. (Guilty. Was recently reminded of the new cell-phone ban in NY by some appropriately fingered hands.) SUVs. Getting bigger and bigger, longer and longer. Beginning to hate them. Black-tinted windows, which are illegal in NY (now I know why), prevent forward-looking into traffic, particularly on SUVs. K-turns. Again, don’t worry about blocking traffic; everyone does it. (Guilty: I have taken an odd pleasure in this one too.) U-turns, also illegal in NYC, are allowed almost everywhere here. Combined with K-turns, at any given 4-way stop or light, you can choose to go ‘round and ‘round the middle of the four corners without anyone stopping you. Weeee! Spelled U-K-rubble. My neighborhood, in which roads simply end due to abrupt changes in incline/decline (not indicated on most maps) and in which tourists like to tool around, is a constant victim to erratic drivers. They must have omitted the turn-signal-use part of the DMV test here. That, or the drivers here all have better psychic sense than me. Jay-walking. Pedestrians here have zero fear of moving vehicles and, in fact, choose to defy the laws of physics since they have legal right-of-way. Should you infringe on their tree-hugging-right, they will remind you by banging your hood, tempting permanent damage (to my car, not them). Or, they'll stand in the middle of the street and try to stare you down. Fuck that. I hit the accelerator then watch them scramble. Tourists. SF is the single most visited city in the U.S. (Bet you didn’t know that.) Because public transportation here sucks, probably related to the likelihood of earthquakes (I’d like to think that vs. poor 19th-century urban planning). Tourists rent cars, bikes, or these little lawnmower-engine bug things that hold two people. Again, a nuisance in my attractive, therefore popular neighborhood. Most of the drivers in NYC are professionals as are most of the riders. I was a professional cab-rider—"LaGuardia please, but take 106th street across then get on the Tri-borough"; "3rd and 94th please, but don’t go across the Park at 96th, take West Side Ave. to 79th, across the Park, then up Madison and across 93rd"; "98th and West End please, but take Madison up to the Park, then 97th over to Broadway where you can let me off." I never wore a seatbelt in a cab until an HMO PCP recited the horrors of getting your face slammed into the bulletproof glass divider—change cup doing the most damage. Even now, I don’t usually try to dig out of the muck a seat belt, but her words ring in my ears. I was recently driving in SF, talking on the phone (see above, guilty driving offence) with a friend on the East Coast. All of the sudden, the car in front of me without signal or warning, went into a K-turn maneuver. Bitching and moaning on the phone, I had an epiphany. The difference is that most of the streets in NYC are one-way. My God, that eliminates most of the "what-the-fuck-are-you-doing" behavior demonstrated here in SF. One-way streets and every-corner-lights (vs. stop signs) would do a lot for SF. Also, timed lights! I tell you, if you’re in the urban planning business, there’s a lot of work to be done in SF. (Don’t tell Gulliani—he’s far too heavy-handed for the liberals here.)(Top) Tough Call—Friends, Convenience, & Energy vs. Vistas & SailingSo to answer your question, what do I miss most about living in THE City? In rank order:
(Yes, there is a strange focus on food, bars, and convenience.) You ask, if you miss so much about New York, why don’t you pack-it-in and move back? After all, most East Coast people seem to move back within two years. Well, aside from the expensive logistics and work availability which are not noteworthy, my decisions today have to do with what I don’t I miss about living in New York and what I LOVE about SF: In SF I don’t miss New York’s (in rank order):
In SF I LOVE,
All in all, I don’t plan to move soon. Yes, it’s been hard meeting people here, especially since I commute far out of town for work. It’s particularly hard to meet straight, single guys when my closest friends in SF are gay or married. But, most of my friends from NYC don’t even live in NYC anymore. They’ve migrated to the suburbs which leaves hard-to-plan weekday nights for over-due gatherings. In fact, it at first seemed like I had more quality time with my NYC friends in SF due to business trips after I moved, but those surprise visits have become farther and fewer between due to the demise of the dot.com economy. Now, I make a point to speak with them on the phone every week. * Since I wrote this, I learned of the passing of young Francie, the barkeep at the Kinsale. He was only in his early 30s. I'm told his funeral was attended by the many friends he made with his friendly greeting and goodhearted laugh. Godspeed.(Top) |
|
|
|||||||||
© Copyright 2000 - 2008. All rights reserved. Site
designed by Leslie A. Howard. |