Love it or leave it

I was raised in the suburbs and will always think of Port Washington (Long Island) as "home." I love spending lazy weekends out there. Yet after living in Manhattan for the past 14 years, I now think of myself as a New Yorker in the urban sense of the word. Between yesterday and today I had two experiences that made the evolution more transparent.

Wednesday:
Yesterday's morning commute in New York City was historical. A sudden and intense storm overwhelmed the city's drainage system with an unmanageable volume of water. It was serious enough that service was stopped entirely or severely disrupted on literally every single line within the entire subway system. NYC came to a grinding halt.

When I turned on the local morning news the traffic reporter vehemently admonished, "If you haven't left for work yet, don't bother. Stay where you are for at least another hour." So I did. I didn't even leave my apartment until 9:00. I didn't walk into the lobby of my Agency until nearly TWO HOURS later (normally a roughly 35 minute trek including a stop at Starbucks).

The worst of it was the 20 - 30 minutes that we stood absolutely motionless with no announcements in the dark tunnel outside the Columbus Circle station. Almost every cubic square inch of that subway car was jam packed with sweaty body parts in a way that made it impossible for anyone to feel clean. We were all frustrated, anxious, late for work and MISERABLE.

Not for one minute did the thought, "I need to get out of this god-forsaken city" cross my mind. Instead I thought, "I should make a donation to Straphangers."

Thursday:
I have already expressed the ballet flat induced fashion-fatigue I've been experiencing, so I'm starting to brave kitten heels in the office. My balance is compromised enough that I can't walk around on sidewalks in them, so today I wore flip-flops for the commute and then slipped on some cute green suede mules with a modest heel to wear for the day. Because I'm kind of old school, I don't think it's right to be seen in flip flops in the office, so I make the switch a block away. You never know whom you'll run into on the elevator.

The same philosophy applies going home, so I waited until I was out of the building and had crossed 8th Avenue into the side street before making the switch. I leaned against a concrete tree planter to keep my balance through the footwear swap. First one shoe, then the other, then a quick Blackberry check. The whole transaction took maybe a minute and a half. With mules safely back in my gigantic purse, I continued flip-flopping down 49th Street cursing the tourists for taking over the theater district.

Guess what was going on just on the other side of the planter? Not two feet from me? A homeless man was standing up from his evidently fake wheelchair and peeing against the same hunk of concrete I had been leaning against for the last 90 seconds.

Did I bat an eye? No. I simply thought, thank God none of that got on my cute suede shoes.

I know these anecdotes only fortify the soundness of others' decisions to live in a location that affords a house with plenty of space, a yard, maybe even a pool - and virtually no risk of anyone peeing on them during their commute.

As for me, I loved the camaraderie that came with being stuck in a laughably ridiculous commuting situation that could not have resulted had we all been behind the wheel of our own cars. And I laughed for at least two blocks over the audacity of the "cripple" peeing in broad daylight right smack in front of the Ambassador Theater amidst throngs of tourists.

I love this city.