2190 days…

I moved to NYC six years ago today, and when I think about this I’m surprised to do the math and realize that I was only 34 –– for some reason it seems like I was older than that when I moved here, although I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because I was so nomadic early in life, now that I’ve stopped in one place my brain keeps thinking that it’s only been two years, or something like that.

This year NYC has fed me a mixed bag, full of a new apartment and a mugging and a near-death experience and lots of good walnut-free meals and a stage to tell stories on, among other things. Franny and I also have tomatoes growing on our back porch, which we’re both pretty excited about.

I’m told that you need to live in NYC for seven years to be considered a “real” New Yorker, and as I begin my seventh year I am beginning to understand why. This city begins to wear on you after about five years –– much of the initial magic has dissipated, and you start to notice the non-magical stuff a little more, and you start to wonder if it’s really worth it, maybe you’d have a better quality of life somewhere else. So getting past the seventh year, I would assume, comes with a sort of acceptance, or maybe not –– maybe after a certain point you begin to find it hard to imagine living anywhere else.

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