Harold’s been offered a job out of NYC and we were at a coffeeshop midway between our apartments, talking about it — Oh, sorry! I might not have expressly stated that where Harold lives and works has a direct impact on my happiness. It does! Harold is the best! I can even overlook that he’s southern, and I sort of hate the south.*
So, after that conversation, I walked back to my apartment, which was a nothing-special place to sleep and keep my clothes before the thought of leaving the city had entered my mind.
I liked walking back. I like walking instead of driving, I like the rundown brownstones and the late-night bike traffic in Bed-Stuy. I like the bodega next to my house, I like the hipster coffeeshop by the train stop, and the other hipster coffeeshop by the other train stop.
I like the subway. I know I’m not supposed to, but I love that my commute is reading my Kindle on the G train, and not trying to merge and park and deal with traffic. I love that my commute is into Manhattan, which we all know is the center of the world.
I like that doing my laundry involves dropping off a bag of dirty laundry and coming back the next day to get a back of folded, Tide-scented clothes. It’s magic, I’m never out of detergent and I never forget about clothes in the dryer.
Sometimes I tell Harold how much I love the subways and laundromats, and when he is done looking at me like I’m insane, he tries to tell me Chapel Hill doesn’t smell like pee and or have rats crawling around, and I could probably adjust to that, too, given time and encouragement.
Southerners, man. I don’t understand them.
*Please disregard the “sort of” in this sentence.
