You wouldn’t notice the green grass, if it weren’t for the brown.

I think, with the exception of those few die hard New Yorkers who see leaving Manhattan as the equivalent of stepping off the map (there be dragons there) most residents of the densely populated metropolis have thought, at one time or another, “this is shit.”  The city is loud, dirty, packed to the brim full of angry people, funny smells linger around every corner, and the thought that it was much worse in previous generations makes me shudder.  And even some of the natives, on more than one occasion, when I told them I was from California have said “why the hell did you leave?”.

At the same time, everyone living in the big apple will have days, weeks, and maybe even months at a time when they feel New York is the best place in the world.  Sometimes the streets are beautiful, the people are vibrant and interesting, and the air almost hums with energy.  I’ve had no shortage of experiences living in NYC that I know I would never have had anywhere else in the world, and met some of the most interesting people I think the human race could possibly produce.  So . . . why the hell did I leave?

Well the old adage is true, the grass is always greener.  And even though I didn’t specifically choose Sydney because of its luscious bluegrass, the idea of escaping the noise, dirt, population density, and air of constant bitterness clouding NYC, was too appealing to refuse.  I wanted to leave NY while I still had those days when I loved living there, but as they were getting fewer and further between, I had to act fast.

And indeed I got exactly what I was looking for, and then some.   My tiny, ancient, walkup was replaced with a spacious clean elevator building.  My view of the shut down factory and parking lot was replaced with sparkling harbor and shiny skyline.  I no longer have to cram myself on to the Great Lawn with every other New Yorker who doesn’t have a summer home, since there are no shortage of public parks, reserves and beautiful beaches just a short trip away.  The streets are clean, the transportation efficient, and all I hear through my window are birdcalls and the occasional horn of a passing ferry.  And maybe it’s because I have yet to pick a footy team to cheer for (don’t say “root for”, it means something dirty here) but the people have all been just as open and friendly as everyone said they would be.  And yet, something is missing.

I know I’m not suffering from culture shock.  How could I be when I moved somewhere that is so culturally similar to what I’m used to, that the only thing I’ve found shocking is the fact that everyone really does eat vegemite?  (How did you do it Kraft?)  But something definitely feels “off.”  When shopping, I have to emotionally prepare myself for the possibility of shop assistants being too helpful.  It doesn’t seem right that the train platforms aren’t packed with people looking down the tracks for approaching headlights, between messaging on their Blackberries.  And the legions of well behaved school children, in smart blue uniforms, are starting to look like the children of the corn.  Could it be?  Do I miss the shit?

Is the on and off love affair most people have with New York like a drug addiction?  Do the highs that make you want to dance down the street, celebrating the fact that no one will find it strange, only feel as good as they do because of the lows?  Maybe everyone loves Central Park, because any patch of tree shade and green grass is a mecca to the pavement dwellers.  Maybe the art museums, restaurants, bars and clubs, are all so great because they are not your tiny little excuse for a domicile.  And maybe, I haven’t been able to settle into this Stepford like city, because it has yet to show me it’s dark side.  I crave some schadenfreude.  I guess after ten years in NYC, I really did go native.

So perhaps this weekend I will hit up the Red Light District (not as a patron, just an observer), start a couple of fights on Oxford Street (which according to it’s reputation shouldn’t be too hard) and shut the blinds so I don’t get woken up by pleasant sunlight and chirping birds.  Maybe I’ll even leave a note for the garbage man to break as many glass bottles as he can while doing the morning pickup.  Then I’ll feel right at home.