I had been living in New Haven, Connecticut for a few years at this point, having grown up in the state my entire life. The only other place I had lived was Philadelphia for college, but I had always dreamed of living in NYC. I had heritage there. My mother’s family were New Yorkers who grew up during the Great Depression, so we had visited often when I was growing up. As spring arrived, bringing with it the restless, excited anticipation for summer, it gave me the motivation to finally take a shot at looking for a job in the city that would allow me to make my big move. After weeks of speaking with and interviewing with headhunters, my break finally arrived. I was offered a contract to hire position in midtown for $50K, and I took it immediately.
I didn’t want to waste any time, and I rationalized the quick decision with the thought that if I didn’t end up liking the job, at least I would be in the city and could more easily find another opportunity since I’d already be living there. I accepted. One of the guys I knew from New Haven also wanted to move to NYC but needed a roommate to afford it. It seemed fate had given us an answer, so we decided to move in together, given my news. We immediately began to scour apartment listings.
As our search continued, we kept lowering our standards as the dream of finding a nice, airy, spacious apartment began to fade. This wasn’t New Haven, where large apartments and even houses were available for moderate budgets. We quickly realized that places within our budget either didn’t exist or were downright decrepit.
This was clearly going to be a challenge, and we were going to need to adjust our expectations. As the search moved further out of our ideal zone, which at the time was central Manhattan, between Chelsea and Tribeca, we began to find some luck in Morningside Heights on the Upper West Side, just below Harlem. This was 2000, and Brooklyn, FiDi, Hell’s Kitchen, and Harlem had not yet begun to gentrify. For two young, pale kids from the suburbs, most of those locations felt rough and posed greater risks, so we avoided them to minimize any drama. FiDi, on the other hand, simply didn’t have the amount of residential housing it does today. Morningside Heights seemed ideal. It was already on its way to changing, relatively safe (if you didn’t stray too far north past 125th Street), close to Central Park, and accessible by the Red Line 1 and 9 trains.
We lost count of how many places we looked at and missed for one reason or another. Some places rented out before we even got to our tour date (some were even rented while we were on our way to visit), our credit wasn’t good enough, we couldn’t come up with the deposit, the dates were wrong, the place smelled, there were weird people hanging around the building, or we simply didn’t like the spot. After a couple of months of looking, visiting, and having no luck, we finally found a deal that seemed too good to be true on Clairemont Ave, one block west of Broadway and one block south of 125th Street. It was a first floor, two bedroom apartment with a large living room and the added bonus of a finished basement the size of the entire apartment. It rented for $3,300, a complete steal for that amount of space! Living in the city was a dream for us. Warm summer nights with the windows open, the sounds of the city, a roomy and comfortable apartment, close to transportation, and just a short 10 to 15 minute walk to Central Park. Plus, there were some cool new bars and restaurants just around the corner on Broadway. It was a struggle to make ends meet, but we felt on top of the world.
My first lesson on living in New York City came when I got curious about Harlem and the cheap stores and restaurants just on the other side of 125th Street. I was hurting for cash and really needed a cheap meal that would fill me up, but nothing in our local “safe zone” seemed adequate except for some snack type food at the local corner mini mart. I decided to make the trek and check things out. After all, I lived here now. I was a New Yorker, right? I took my regular route to the 125th and Broadway subway station and paused at the foot of the stairs. To me, it looked like the demilitarized zone, trash on the streets, shady characters walking in every direction, giving side eye, homeless people begging for money, and run down fast food joints like Popeyes and McDonald’s, or the local bodega. It was like a whole other world, and it was.
I worked up the nerve to walk north on Broadway, straightened my posture, puffed out my chest, and walked as though I knew exactly where I was going. Mind you, there were no smartphones back then. It felt as if everyone was watching me (in reality, probably no one cared other than the fact that I was the only white kid on the street, clearly out of place and looking nervous). With every block I crossed, I became more and more anxious, like someone scuba diving for the first time, looking back at the surface and realizing safety was getting farther and farther away. It got to me, and finally, I turned around to head back before something bad happened.
As I approached the subway station on 125th Street again, a sense of relief washed over me. At the same time, I felt disappointed that I hadn’t done anything but walk into the area, so I decided to stop at one of the fast food places near the station. As I looked around, nothing seemed inviting, but I settled on McDonald's because it was the most familiar.
When I entered, it felt as though all eyes were on me. The place was filled with all kinds of characters, some eating, some loitering, others arguing or horsing around. There were many people in line to order, and I felt like I was getting stares, as if to say, "What are you doing in here, kid?" I pretended like the place was too busy for me to waste my time waiting in line, turned around, and walked out, heading directly to the mini mart just one block from my new apartment. That evening, I had a fine dining experience in my living room consisting of a Sobe drink, a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, and some cheap Voortman cookies.
