I don’t miss commuting into Manhattan. Don’t miss Port Authority. Don’t miss walking to the subway. Waiting for the subway. Riding the subway.
I don’t miss the crowded sidewalks. Or the garbage scattered on the streets because people are lazy and sloppy.
I don’t miss the smells. The colors. The noise. The constant sensory overload.
I don’t miss the weather.
I don’t miss the relentless pulse of energy that permeates throughout the city – even at 6:30 on a Saturday morning (when I used to head into the gym). Seriously, WTF are tourist doing out at that time anyway? What are they hoping to see?
I know New York has its merits. Growing up I dreamed about working in Manhattan. While other girls were playing house, I was playing “office” sitting at the desk in my bedroom pretending I was running a company. I was certain that in the future I would commute into the city each day like my dad.
As an adult I found Manhattan to be exhausting. Sure I loved leisurely strolling around the West Village, Soho, or Tribeca. But the days I was able to aimlessly wander around were few and far between. And even then, they weren’t days. They were hours.
In the end, my relationship with the island of Manhattan was purely utilitarian. It was a means to an end.
I’m now preparing to head back east for the holidays. (I’m trying not to refer to “back east” as “home.”) Part of that preparation means bracing for the inevitable barrage of questions about what I miss most.
Two and a half months removed, Manhattan is not on the list.