I recently took an amazing position with a brand I love to make a product I love, but the wrinkle is that this new position is going to be based in San Francisco, requiring me to move across the country from New York, “big city of dreams,” to the mellow coast. Having to move from the city I called home for the last 6 years, my mind is full of things New York. What I will miss and not miss. Sweeping generalizations about the differences between the two coasts, that sort of thing.
Surprisingly, deeper, more meaningful friendships in a short period have happened in New York vs. California. In California, you may meet ten people, call them all friends, but be lucky to have made one real friend. In New York, you may meet 10 people, call only three of them acquaintances, but all three will be real friends and show up at your good-bye party.
I will miss that every 3-4 blocks in New York represent an independent, self-sufficient community with its own bodega, bagel, pizza, laundry, sushi, and Chinese food option. All within easy walking distance. Everything you would ever want can be delivered to your door at almost any time.
Whatever people say, I prefer east coast to west coast rap. Please do not shoot me—it’s just my preference. On that note, going to a club/party with a connected, cool person where Q-tip DJ’d is definitely an NY thing.
Never thought I would be someone who had a “neighborhood haunt.” But here, I do and, scary, some people at the bar do know my name.
Yeah, yeah, pizza and bagels—New York rules and I know, it’s the water.
With that, I might as well mention the museums, shows, food, and Central Park.
Everything does not close at 1:30 in the morning.
The shopping. Nothing on the west coast can compare.
I will miss the amazing feeling of jumping into a cool air-conditioned subway car (one of the new ones that make that weird twiddle sound as they move down the track with the automatic announcement and blue along-the-side seats) and getting a seat during the hot summer.
I will not miss holding tight to the bar, face turned 180 from some smelly armpit, during rush hour in an old, packed-beyond-capacity subway car (broken air conditioning with the orange seats that force standing people’s asses to play cheek pong as they avoid sticking them into the faces of the “lucky” folks in seats).
Nothing too deep or profound. This is a blog, right? Tell me what I have missed before I write about why the west coast is better.