Back when I commuted every day, strangers would constantly invade my personal space. But it was mostly to ask questions. Ya know, the usual stuff. Directions, restaurant recommendations, pithy movie reviews. But on occasion, someone would stop me and say, “hey, what defines a real New Yorker?” I never had enough time to provide a sufficient answer. After the train arrived I’d be stuck yelling through the closing doors, please.
However, real New Yorkers are indeed a real thing. They are known by common traits and signs that anyone, no matter how unfamiliar with their kind, can immediately identify. It’s a good thing this concept has crystalized over the last few months. Not a bad time to take stock in what we have.
Real New Yorkers have two, maybe three homes - one in Connecticut and another in Florida or the Amalfi Coast. They spend very little time in the city itself, preferring to tell people who don’t know any better where they’re from. Yes, they pay rent, but they rarely let the sun set on them in any of the five boroughs. Saying you’re from NYC is like a diploma from a college you graduated from decades ago. It means a lot to those on the outside.
Real New Yorkers exclusively refer to the city as “The Big Apple”, or when surrounded by throngs of French speaking relatives “The Pomme Grand.” They talk excessively of “appling” or “getting their apple on” – cute pet terms for entering the city limits.
Real New Yorkers follow closely the exploits of NYFC, ignoring the four major sports as painfully passé and lacking genuine competitive flare.
Real New Yorkers adore Times Square – the lights, the sounds, the bus exhaust. It’s where they come alive, buying a soft pretzel after a hard day.
Real New Yorkers appreciate what tourists bring to the city, adding their own sense of style and joy.
Real New Yorkers never have anywhere to go, listlessly strolling in the center of the sidewalk and only jaywalking in an emergency. They sure have the time.
Real New Yorkers don’t have a favorite building or bridge. They love every single structure equally. Whether it’s the Brooklyn Bridge or the Randall’s Island foot bridge, the Chrysler Building or a random fire hydrant on East 92nd Street, all are the recipients of their big, pumping heart.
Real New Yorkers never complain about anything. They treasure graffiti on their cars, homes, storefronts and faces. It gives them each character. So long as the spray paint doesn't get in their eyes.
Oh and one more thing. There’s only one real New York. It’s a narrow strip of cement down by the Battery. Let’s say about two feet long and a foot wide. It’s a low cut curb and just big enough for someone to sit on and ponder the city’s exceedingly narrow sense of self. It's not comfortable, it's not safe, but it is real.
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