Apples & Onions, Part One

I was born to be a city-dweller. I may never be more than three feet from a cockroach at any given time, and I may have cumulatively breathed in carbon monoxide in doses so high that one might think I put my mouth around the rim of a volcano,¹ but I'm happy in cities. I like being around people that don't have time for me. I like having everything within easy reach geographically, even if not economically. And while I don't like having to dodge clusters of poop on the sidewalk, I do like the adorable dogs that leave them.

I was born in Chicago, and even though I moved out to a nearby suburb at an early age, I've always been proud of my Chicago roots. I've been in New York for three years, and I still decline ketchup on my hot dogs, still refuse to fold my pizza, and still talk to strangers on the subway.² But I've also picked up New York habits. I walk faster now. I've perfected that intense tunnel vision gaze the savvy Manhattanite can use to shut out those people trying to sign you up for GreenPeace. I've even taken to muttering, "Fucking tourists," under my breath when a flabby, pasty out-of-towner stops directly in front of me to look up and marvel at how tall a building is, without realizing it's something so soul-wrenchingly dull as a telephone exchange office.

I've always been fascinated with the gulfs of difference between American cities and the people that live in them. We're all American, sure, but the cultural divide between two cities as close as New York and Boston is probably wider than the one America-at-large shares with Canada. I'm in a good position to examine the way things are in America's two foremost cities,³ and that's going to be a recurring thing here. I won't be doing an arbitrary "Who's better?" thing, just musings on the way things are here and there.

Something I appreciate about New Yorkers is their directness. Everyone goes out into the day with their own mental itinerary, and they leave themselves very little time to stop and smell any roses. That mindset makes New Yorkers really easy to deal with. They want it straight, don't waste their time with the frills and candy coating. But that bluntness I appreciate also means there's no time for small talk. One of the hardest things I've ever done is try to initiate a conversation with a stranger around here.

Chicagoans are not afraid to talk to strangers. They don't mind taking some time to bullshit with someone they're probably never going to see again. Yeah, they've got places to be, but sometimes a chat with a random person on the El is more entertaining the the umpteenth run through your iPod's contents.

I try to talk with people all the time, whether it's around the city, on the subway, or even on planes. My east coast friends, quite naturally, assume this is a sign of insanity on my part, and hope I might someday open my eyes to the fact that this gregariousness will inevitably end with me gut-stabbed. All due respect, guys. I haven't gotten the shiv yet, but I have gotten a few phone numbers. I think I'll keep doing what I'm doing.

Next time on Apples & Onions: Hot dogs. Is less more? The answer may surprise you.⁴

-PK


¹ A lot easier than you might think, if you're loose about what defines "volcano."
² And someday, they will talk back.
³ Eat your botox-riddled heart out, Los Angeles.
⁴ Unless you answered, "No."