Tribeca is a lovely place to raise a family, if you have a spare million or twenty and there’s the sticky association with Harvey Weinstein. But lovely.
The floor-to-ceiling windows of my corner apartment look out over another apartment. Actually about 50 of them. Where I grew up in rural Georgia you could drive for miles and not see 50 houses but here, in the capital city of the world, entire small towns are arranged into a series of Hollywood Squares facing one other.
A few of the lucky ones (patting myself on the back) get an angled view of several stages, rather than just the one immediately across.
There are clearly a lot of families around. I see dogs and cats, buckets of toys, ironing boards and clothes scattered and there’s a baseball field along the West Side Highway across from one of those cycling gyms with a line of moms outside.
I tried spinning once. A friend’s wife had opened a studio and, in an effort to be supportive, I went with friends to experience it. Less than a minute in I realized I would not live to see the 30th minute, and the gym was dark, so I cheated. I sat and bobbed my head up and down to act like I was into it. Probably would’ve gotten away with it if one of my friends hadn’t been sitting behind me, witnessing the whole affair.
There are also some young couples here, maybe trying to conceive and hoping for luck by existing among this fertile population. But the vintage travel posters, unmade beds and wine bottles stacked on the counter stand out among the nurseries. Regardless this street doesn’t jump out as a haven for bachelors.
I’m hungry, and in New York after all, so I ask the doorman on the way out, “any decent pizza around?”
“Whole Foods.”
I stare for a second, unsure if this is some show of brusque New Yorkism or if he already doesn’t like me, or if, truly, the best pizza in New York could also be had in Orlando.
“But if you really want good pizza, and culture” – because anyone recommending a chain grocery store has clearly earned the authority of a Michelin guide – “You know, real New York, get outta Tri-bec-a.”
He makes a face when giving caustic force to the “bec” in the neighborhood I clearly am now calling home.
“This just idn’t the place for pizza. But Queens, man, that’s some food.”
Is there a societal obligation that I stand here and listen to his sanctimonious ode to the other boroughs? New York seems the type of place to legislate such a thing.
Refusing to stoop to Whole Foods pizza in literally my first hour in the city, I wander north to Joe’s Pizza in the village.
This, of course, requires passing through the third-world Commune of Canal Street.
Rats live throughout the city – either befriending or eating the pigeons – I’m less familiar with the circle of life among the lower classes – but their concentration grows tenfold in the fake purse district. Had Robert Moses been allowed, I assume most of Manhattan would similarly be a ten-lane slum today, so for once I’m grateful for protesters.
As I’ll do throughout my time in New York, I politely put my head down and slowly jog for one block in either direction of Canal, not to an extent that will cause my heft to generate perspiration but quickly enough to avoid being hawked a Goyard with staples in the side.
Call me rude, but you learn quickly to avoid eye contact with strangers in the city.
Mom likewise thought I was rude, and to prove her point on a visit later on threw out a bit of southern charm to some fellow that just barely squeezed through the closing subway doors.
“Oh good, you made it,” she chirped with a golf clap. Eye contact and acknowledgement.
“Jesus, Mom, don’t talk to people,” I hissed.
“You’re so rude,” she snapped back.
The gentleman doesn’t miss a beat – literally, as he pulls out a drum set and begins rapping to her for spare change.
Mom also tried to befriend my neighbors, who I had successfully avoided for months up to that point, other than occasionally having to turn up my music to drown out the wails of their toddler.
“Oh, what a cute girl. I know she’s so excited for the snow.” She leaned into the stroller.
“He’s a… he.”
But Mom was far too busy playing with the child to hear, or to see the flood of Yankee horror at the sight of some stranger poking their child.
“Aww she’s just adorable,” she continued cooing.
I believe I heard them quickly slam their door once or twice thereafter as I was opening mine.
In fairness to Mom, there is an expectation at home that ladies strike up conversation with each passing party and gentlemen give a cursory, manly nod. Not a full-on Japanese bow, to be clear – men aren’t meant to demonstrate much in the way of emotion – but just enough of a movement to acknowledge the passing person’s existence.
In the grocery store to neighbors, in traffic to the driver stuck next to you, even for the homeless on the sidewalk to whom you have no intention of giving money and that you are otherwise avoiding, a nod.
That process would be ridiculous in New York, given the sheer number of people one passes in a given minute. Police would presumably, and justifiably, commit a seizing head-bobber to an additional glance by a psychiatrist.
In Atlanta it’s made a bit more manageable given that in the sweltering heat we shift quickly from one seated, air-conditioned space to another, without any unnecessary time spent milling among other sweltering hot neighbors.
This also has an impact on broader caloric burn, despite the additional effort expended by nodding necks. From the house to the car is 10 steps, the walk through the office garage probably 50, with small talk about the weather to the Indian analyst who shares my arrival time but not my interests.
So, round trip, including a stop by the office coffee shop, we’re at fewer than 150 steps a day without some additional effort.
And my body reflects the lack of additional effort.
I suppose we all have things about our bodies we don’t like – models routinely tell us of the one grey hair that humbles them – but throughout that decade or so when half of guys maintained six-packs on resting metabolism alone, I proudly stepped to the back row of any group photo at the pool.
Now dad bods are in but the excess baggage probably costs me a couple of points in any ranking.
But here in New York, going to get pizza, I just posted at least a quarter’s worth of steps. I tug at my waistband, one I claim is 34 inches and try to squeeze into pants but who are we kidding, and check for progress.
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