Living versus visiting New York

Living in a place, rather than merely visiting, is a whole different experience with its own set of rules and negotiations. I have been searching for an apartment in Manhattan for the last four days. I have walked varied neighborhoods, talked to ten potential roommates, looked at six apartments in Harlem, Spanish Harlem, the Upper West Side, Midtown West, and Lower East Side (which was way too far from Columbia--150 short blocks and two local train transfers that would take an hour and fifteen minutes on a good day--but it was still fun to look). I have still not found a place. I have walked through Central Park and cooled myself off in 100 degree weather by walking through loosened hydrants spewing water. I've been whistled at (best comment ever? "Sure is hot out here, little lady, but not as hot as you!"), walked probably the equivalent of 20 miles and got free sushi when a cockroach ran across my table--which was probably a good thing as I didn't really have the $15 to pay for it.

I bought a weekly pass for the subway. I love the subway. It's one of the few places where you are allowed to stare at people and make up stories. Yesterday I sat across from a native American dwarf. I am not making this up! As my friends are acutely aware, I am a little person magnet. His face was perfect. He was noble, clear-eyed and somehow intimidating, and in a previous life might have been Red Cloud of the Lakota Sioux. In fact, I wanted to befriend him and ask him to keep in touch with me so I could use him some day in a film. This morning, I listened to two men in full mariachi suits play the accordion and guitar and sing. Everyone in the train car smiled and it reminded me of my trip to Mexico last summer, where a full 12-piece mariachi band played us "Besame Mucho," and the men on the train made me feel a little sad.