"Okay, that's $18.00"
*Pause*
"But...you said, $9 for both"
"No. You get jumbo hot dogs, it double"
I looked hungrily at my sloppy street hot dog, then at Zach, my lips in a tight nervous line-the kind when I'm trying to hold in a laugh. Zach stared blankly at the increasingly frustrated vendor, a flat no written across his face.
"$18.00" He said more abruptly this time, turning it into a demand.
Zach slowly handed the hot dog back to the man. "No thank you" he said.
The man's eyes grew wild and angry, suddenly he reminded me of an angry baboon, slamming his fist against the cart and making growling noises amongst curses.
"You get jumbo dog, $18.00!"
"We'll take both for $15.00"
His response was a continuation of aggressive baboon like motions and shouting terms such as "Mother F*****" and other angry sounding statements in a different language. My eyes widened, as did those of other passerby's. This poor excuse of a man had no filter, no shame. He slammed the change into Zach's hand, glaring at him with savage eyes. As we hurriedly walked away from the maniac, I turned to see that he was making a gesture with his hands as if he was holding a gun and shooting it at us. He then spit in our direction. Oh New York, you really know how to welcome people with warming, open arms. No wonder they think we're all nuts across the pond.
I remember there was one night in Munich when I was walking on a newly rained upon sidewalk, with Miranda and our new German friend Marren. Out of no where this guy wound his hand back, got on his knee for dramatic effect, and smacked my butt so hard that it left me with pins and needles for a few seconds. I was quite unfiltered in my response as I lunged towards him and apparently said "I'M FROM NEW YORK, DON'T F*** WITH ME." His friends grasped at his arms and pulled him behind them saying "Sorry, no english, no english!" I jabbed my finger towards him and shouted "APOLOGIZE TO ME. APOLOGIZE." Marren snapped at he and his friends in German and Miranda pulled my arm, a smart move, considering we were outnumbered by about 5. He finally apologized and we moved on, in silence for a moment as we all processed what just happened. Miranda started laughing, turning to me as she said "You told him you were from New York!" she continued to laugh. After replaying the scene in my head I realized that was the first thing I blurted out as a defensive response. In general, the statement was quite embarrassing and obnoxious, but not in this situation. In this brief moment that I felt uncomfortable and violated, some powerful, unrecognized form of patriotism that I was holding within me was released with pride. No, I'm not intimidating, but yes, I'm from New York. Yes, we're insane, we pay the most taxes, we have a lot of crime, we need our coffee, and rushing is our favorite past time. In that moment, I was proud of the chaos and insanity that New York is known for. However, being away for so long, I forgot what it was like to experience the madness firsthand.
"It's a love-hate relationship" I've often explained to Zach, who has now witnessed the stressful, trying, competitive lifestyle that controls so many people's lives within this state. Anyone traveling from another country, even another state, would most likely be confused as to why people continue to live and struggle here. I think there is a pride that many New Yorker's have within them, that exemplifies the struggle they've endured here and how they beat it or continue to beat it. Perhaps there is a belief that the difficulty that most people experience in their daily lives here makes us a little more tough, a little more jaded, a little more prepared to appreciate the peacefulness of the other parts of the world and the states that we all deserve to thrive in. It's a state that consists of so many big dreams and inspirations but also big losses and discouragements. Mountains of hope and oceans of pessimism. You can't be a true New Yorker if you don't love a challenge at least once in a while. There is a persistence in the blood of most of the people here, a determination to never become that broken man or woman that life has no mercy on. When living abroad, I watched from the outside, looking into this bubble of what I believed to be safety, comfort, a sense of home. New York will always have a special place in my heart, almost like a toxic relationship that you learned so many life lessons from. However, now that I'm back, I'm more aware than ever of the little to no quality of life that consumes so many people that live here. It's New York, same old.
I am now experiencing the inbetween- a temporary lifestyle that is not easy to adapt to. I came home to not having a bedroom, as my parents took over mine and moved me into what dad likes to call "his office." My father loves and avidly collects old horror and monster film memorabilia as well as old movie posters, so Zach and I had to get used to waking up to Dracula's bloody fangs eternally sticking out above our heads, the Creature from the Black Lagoon making an ugly face if wake up on my left side, and the creepy House that Dripped Blood woman holding a tray with some guy's head on it at the foot of the bed. It is the opposite of what my room was before I left and I miss that atmosphere terribly, but at the end of the day I'm happy to have a bed and a roof over my head. Dad's collection is pretty interesting compared to baseball cards or deer heads on the wall, and it's admirable how he's kept this hobby going since he was a kid.
I didn't start work again for about a month after I returned home, so I had a lot of time on my hands to do some observing and self reflection. I came home with so much excitement to share my stories and lessons learned to family and friends, but I was quickly quieted by the intimidating, challenging, fairly depressing hustle and bustle of a lifestyle that many people see as reality here. I would watch my siblings come and go out of the house, with not much to say, most of the time simply because they did not have time to say anything aside from a greeting. I'd watch my mom sort through bills in the mail and sigh in exhaustion as she looked out of the window in hopes to find an answer among the autumn trees. Dad would come home late as always, covered in paint and grumpy as a result of a long days work- "the car is on it's last leg" he'd say. Was my family a representation of what most of New York was experiencing? No time for conversation, no time for sit down dinners, no time to reflect on the day or to think about tomorrow. No time. How could I possibly talk about my incredible adventures and moments of bliss when there was little to none of it present in this home? It simply wouldn't be fair, to discuss my experiences with people who didn't see my choices and lifestyle from the past 5 months as a reality. I did not want to seem pompous, elite, or arrogant. I could only hope and try to lightly encourage my family to consider a better lifestyle, one more similar to overseas, because that's what they deserve.
I decided to do the same and not blab too much to my friends or people from work (I'm back at Whole Foods for the time being, your number one Turkey salesperson for the holiday), because I would notice people start to lose interest if I did, or I was afraid it would come across as rubbing it in the face of someone who has not had the chance to travel and may not have that chance for quite a while. I've always been the kind of person that loves to share things that make me happy or excited: movies, food, music, etc. I began to imagine that I was explaining this mind blowing film to people who had never seen it, and I really wanted them to watch it, but they simply would not grasp the magnitude of how meaningful or moving the film was until they have sat there and watched it with their own eyes. Until they have processed it with their brain and responded with emotions from it. Until they wanted to talk about the film with me and how it made them feel. So, I've strayed away from over expressive conversations about my travels, unless I've been asked particular questions about them. It's taught me to be introspective and realize that I am living these experiences for myself and to encourage others to travel if they show interest. It's led me to writing this blog. It feels a little alienating sometimes and I feel a little distance within myself. The only thing I believe it to be is a naturally occurring distance from this lifestyle that was once routine to me.
I knew the adjustment would be difficult, as I've experienced it once before, exactly a year ago from today. I came home from Europe my first time about a year ago and had a dangerous case of the travel blues, but the deep sorrow I felt was actually passion in disguise. It encouraged me to move to Germany six months later and experience the world in an entirely new way. This time, the adaptation has been a little more difficult, as I am much more aware to truths that I once preferred to be ignorant to. I'm shocked that I lived this kind of life for as long as I did. The live to work vs. work to live mentality. I missed home very much at times while I was away, but I've come to realize the things that I missed were simply hopeful concepts my mind was creating on it's own. Moments of nostalgia, easy living, things working out. Since being home, things have not exactly worked out: being without a car on Long Island makes it near impossible to fulfill even the simplest things within daily routine, I lost two long term friends (via Facebook messenger), I've been trying to unify my disconnected family as much as possible, and the general stress and negativity of this Island is so prominent that it is highly contagious and hard to not be affected by.
But, I'm a New Yorker. I'm tough. We were raised to keep punching the air, weren't we?
