if you can make it there

Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for fear I effuse unreturn'd love,
But now I think there is no unreturn'd love, the pay is certain one way or antoher
(I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return'd,
Yet out of that I have written these songs.)

-Walt Whitman

For the past few weeks I've mostly been dividing my time between two missions: finding an apartment and finding a boyfriend. They're not that dissimilar, when you think about it; I was using the Internet a lot in both cases, for example. The boyfriend thing turned out to be less pressing, though, and so most of my attention turned to housing. Thanks to my concerted efforts I've now secured a new residence starting in the month of September.

Dating. Real estate. Employment. Why is everything in New York such a struggle? People move to other cities (like San Francisco or Philadelphia) because they want to live there; people move to New York to make it. The moment you set foot here, it's a competition. And the way you hear people talk about this city, you get the sense that it's not just all the other New Yorkers that you're competing with but rather the city itself. It's a personified oppositional force, one that's making it harder for you to afford your rent or to find your life partner. New York is bigger than all of us, we imply, it has a mind of its own. And our relationship with the City is, and always will be, the Big One. [Note that the TV series was called "Sex and the City" not "Sex in the City"; New York is not a mere location.]

When I talk about the City, of course, I mean Manhattan. Or those parts of New York life that emanate out of Manhattan, exist in relation to Manhattan. When you consider the real New York City, all five boroughs in all of their diversity, you actually can start to feel a little bit warm about it; there's an all-embracing feminine quality, an organicity to it. But when you're talking about The City there's no femininity in the equation. If The City were a woman (and it very well could be) it would be an iron lady, a power broker, a Martha Stewart or a Maggie Thatcher. The City gets what it wants. The City doesn't give a fuck.

I've been in the "very heart of it" for two years now--that's 24 times longer than I've been with any boyfriend. And I'm moving on. Not a definitive break, of course, but an increasing distance. We'll still see one another casually, as friends, at work, maybe sometimes it will get more intense than that. But I don't forsee that happening soon. I've got another borough on the horizon that's going to require some attention. But the City, oh, the City. He's always going to be a part of my life. He's my Mr. Big. (Sorry for all the Carrie Bradshaw references, I'm usually more of a Henry James-Proust-style gay, but what can I say?)

Maybe it's time to settle some accounts. My relationship with the City has not only been one of the longest affairs of my life but also, perversely, one of the healthiest. I'll admit, it's not the sort of thing I would wish on everyone. The City is not a sensitive or considerate partner. He makes a lot more money than you and he's always more busy than you are. He doesn't really get your idealism, your commitment to putting other people first. Sure, he thinks it's noble, but nobility and $2.50 will buy you a hot dog at Nathan's.

The City doesn't support you. He's not "there for you," the way the women's magazines tell you a boyfriend should be. "All right," he says, "Go out and try to do good in the world. I'm not gonna stop you. But don't come crying home to me if it turns out to be tougher than you thouhgt." The City is not going to change its routines to accomodate you; like the female recruits at the Citadel, you will get no special treatment. And if you succeed despite all that, you will have earned the City's respect.

That's where we've come to, he and I. He's not abusive. Some people leave the City crying, talking about how unfair it's been to them, how fucked up it is. But, hey, they entered into it with their eyes open. The City never cared about me and, you know what, I don't think I wanted it to. I learned more that way. I learned more about reality. And if I've had some of my ideals hardened and scuffed up a bit while I've been here, in the thick of it, all the better for me. What good's an ideal that you have to keep locked in the china cabinet?

We've had some good times, the City and I. Fun nights out, excesses. We've had bad nights, too. Nights when I came home by myself, cursing, pissed off. Every block that I walk down these past few weeks seems to call up some new memory or other, from Avenue A to Chelsea Piers, from Times Square to City Hall. I won't be sad to walk some new streets soon, ones that aren't so saturated yet with experience. My new boyfriend, Brooklyn (it's a Dutch name), still seems dewy-eyed and sensitive to me, cuddly. We're still at that stage. I don't think the City would think much of him. They could never be friends.

But I don't need them to be. I don't need to seek the City's approval. I'm not running away from him; I've just come to see that I need something else. I've got other needs that I have to be fulfilled. And I don't expect him to miss me. Well, at least I don't expect him to show it.

The City didn't give me me much. No handouts. No gifts. (Those came from the Mennonites. What were they doing there?) But I think it's because of that rock-hard consistency that I've really loved this relationship. I never expected anything from him and I got what I expected. The thing I'm going to take away from all of this is what I have become: idealistic but wiser, driven but practical, sensitive but self-reliant. And I think he respects me for that.