The Big Apple. The Empire City. The City That Never Sleeps. The Bearded Clam. New York by any other name is still the same rat-infested urinary-depository that many a Dartmouth grad comes to call home. I had the privilege of venturing into the depths of this renowned city last summer. It smelled a lot like urine and rats.
To preface this unabashedly narrow-minded survey of life in New York, I must explain a little about my background. I grew up in a small quaint village in northern Vermont whose primary claim to fame is being located roughly 60 miles north of White River Junction on I-91. Many a time as a child I would revel at my proximity to such metropolitan wonders as the China Moon Buffet and the Orange County District Court.
For those of you who have missed the Hanover Exit en route to Dartmouth, you are familiar with the fact that the next exit happens to be 60 miles to the north -- a town called St. Johnsbury (motto: "I think we missed that last exit"). I grew up in an even smaller tributary-village that lives off the bounty and gas stations of St. Johnsbury. My village (population: 502) pays a yearly tribute in annual maple syrup yield to St. Johnsbury in return for protection against the invading hordes of leaf-peepers that flock northward in the hopes of digitally capturing the pristine natural flight of dead leaves falling to the ground. As it turns out, a majority of these leaf-peepers happen to reside in New York City. And a majority of these people happen to suck at life.
Yet, despite my occasional contact with these obnoxious flatlanders (the local term for those who haven't lived in Vermont for at least three generations), I managed to find myself making the reverse pilgrimage to New York this past summer. No amount of maple sugar products would save me from what I was about to encounter.
Bars: Getting smashed like grown-ups
Since when did getting tanked have anything to do with talking to people? I was soon to find that Dartmouth life in New York revolves around bars. This scares me. While I enjoy having a beer with a couple friends, I can do this perfectly fine in the privacy of a dark alleyway. Bars take away much of the joys I've had drinking at Dartmouth.
Alcohol is no longer free. Oh no. One Jack and Coke will put you back more than a dinner for two at Molly's. Pong? Forget about it. Drinking in bars is only a second-hand thought. New Yorkers come to bars to talk. Of course, by "New Yorkers" I mean sketchy bald guys, and by "to talk," I mean to spit unrelenting BlackBerry" game at disinterested female bartenders. Dartmouth grads, however, always would find themselves into a corner and reminisce about those times back in Hanover when dudes used to really hang out.
Bars are still, however, a big step up from the NYC institution known as the "Club."
Clubs: Where it's OK to dance like a moron
The only thing more comical than what goes on inside clubs is their names. They all have uniformly hip sounding names: "Air," "Rain," "Society," "Cain," "Incontinence," etc. People don't really enjoy going to clubs, they just enjoy repeating these names to their friends the next day. Inside the club is a sight to be had. Fun is not allowed. Just dancing. Well-dressed awkward white guys dancing to Justin Timberlake with unwavering focus. Everyone else waits outside in line to get in.
Dogs fit in purses
I was shocked by how many dogs I saw being carried around in purses. Who knew you could put a dog in a purse? Yet the bigger question remains: How many purses have I seen before that secretly had dogs concealed within.
I spent a lot of my free time over the summer trying to guess which purses had dogs and which did not. Considering the fact that some breeds of Yorkshire Terriers grow to be only five inches tall, pretty much any purse, European carryall or pocketbook laid suspect. Though by sneaking up on women and barking ferociously at their handbags, I could usually figure out rather quickly whether or not they were toting a dog.
Body Odor
I'd like to think that most of us at Dartmouth share a common sense of personal hygiene. We shower with regularity. We wash our clothing (or at least turn it inside out when it's been a couple days). We even have access to amenities such as Febreeze and Right Guard Spray-on Deodorant for those really tough days. However, the same standards do not apply in New York City.
To make things worse, smelly New Yorkers track you down at times when you can't escape. I spent countless hours trapped in the subway and taxis with my nose pressed up against what seemed to be some omnipotent sweaty Eastern European armpit. I would try to imagine pleasant-smelling things like daffodils and rainbows, but it was useless. NY body odor is a breed of its own.
The Weirdos
Now here I may be a little judgmental, but it seems like there are a disproportionate amount of weirdos in New York City compared to any other place in the world. Sure, Dartmouth has its fair share -- the drifter who ran for President in front of the Hanover Inn in 2004, the Baker-Berry Masturbator, Austin W. Carpenter '07 -- but they pale in comparison to New York's wackos. Though sometimes riding the subway late at night I would pretend to be one to avoid getting mugged -- you know, staring unnervingly ahead of me muttering things like, "Jesus....Satan....Pretzels...Cooooool whip....." Sometimes I just barked at hand bags.
The Bathroom Attendant
On the topic of weirdos, nothing is quite as awkward as taking a leak with some dude staring at you out of the corning of his eye, just waiting for the opportunity to squirt a dollop of soap into your hands. The silent pause as he guilt-trips you into tipping him for a job well done doesn't help either. I admit sometimes I can be lazy, but soap dispersion and towel distribution is usually something I can take care of on my own. Though it would be a pretty chill job after graduation.
Geography
One last observation: To a New Yorker, the rest of the world is the island.