Dear New York City,
It still hasn't hit me that I live here yet. I take the subway into the city and walk around Union Square at least four days a week. I've given directions to tourists. I'm slowly building an arsenal of great places to eat. I picked the bodega I will forever be loyal to (well, at least until we move). I've done Saturday brunch. I have yet to get on the wrong train (knock on wood). I already have apartment horror stories to tell. I've so far counted 9 subway critters. It took a while, but I'm pretty familiar with most of the Brooklyn neighborhoods now, and can tell you which areas I'd like to live in (at the very least, I can definitely tell you the areas I don't want to live in).
I think, for three weeks, that's a pretty solid list of accomplishments. Especially the subway rats/mice. I mean, who doesn't love tiny animals with fur that run through muck and withstand all sorts of diseases on a daily basis? It's pretty impressive.
That being said, I'm not going to lie: you scared me at first. You're big and intimidating, and nothing like Wisconsin. Which I knew, obviously, but it's always much different to see in person. I've been nearly run over by a taxi more than once, you provided me with a heat wave when I didn't have access to AC, and unreliable realtors who never get back to me. Somehow you allowed my debit card to get hacked, so now I'm running around like a chicken with my head cut off while I try to set up a new bank account. I need new shoes to counteract all the walking I do, and I long for the day when summer fades into fall and I can go back to layering and hats.
And yet I still like you. Love you, in fact. I'm convinced that moving out here was the best decision I've ever made. I love that there's always something to do, someone to see. Any type of food I could possibly want, you have it. The job opportunities I'd hoped to find really do exist. I haven't seen any celebrities yet, but I'm counting on it. I'm much better suited to the pace of life out here, and while I hate summer, I hate summer in any part of the country. So it isn't your fault. I'm excited to walk around Central Park in October, when the leaves change colors and I can actually wear a sweater. And though I'm horrifically clumsy, I may just venture out to Rockefeller Center and ice skate this winter. You're making me try new things and test ideas I already have, and I kind of love you for it.
After three weeks, you don't seem so scary. You feel a little more like home each and every day, and I suspect, given a few more weeks, I won't be tempted to write WI after my Brooklyn address. When that happens, I think I'll officially be able to call you home. And I can't wait.
Crushing on you,