Tuesday, August 03, 2004

One Reason Not to Leave New York (for the forseeable future)

Summer in the city is universally hated. The humidity, the stink (eu de garbage, anyone? Underground piss, perhaps?), the rats, the roaches -- none of them are attractive propositions. Everything feels sodden and oppressive, and dirty air conditioner water is constantly raining down from on high.

We live so far north in the Bronx that we're geographically much closer to Westchester than Manhattan. It's more suburban in character, but still maintains the grit that one would expect from a Bronx address. There are many single family homes and few large apartment buildings, barring ours.

Our particular space is in the fifth floor of a 1914 walk up. The trip upstairs can be forbidding, especially after a night of nicotine and booze, but it lends a fabulous cross breeze on horrible, ugly, hot nights like tonight. And the breeze always carries this faint, salty tinge, because it comes over Pelham Bay and Long Island Sound before that. I can't get enough. I'm originally from New England -- the scent says summer and playtime and huge family dinners of lobster and salt potatoes and corn on the cob.

My boyfriend says he can't smell it. He's always lived here, though; too much familiarity breeds contempt, I guess.

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