TV New York vs. My New York

I moved to New York in 2002, at the height of the Carrie Bradshaw era. Sex and the City was in its fifth season, and everyone and their mothers—including me and mine—had been following Carrie and Co. all over Manhattan for the better part of four years, spellbound as much by her wild outfits as by her romantic trials and triumphs. I watched Carrie's exploits that year on a little TV in my dorm room, mere blocks from where she and her friends (Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda, for the uninitiated few of you who've been in comas for the last 10 years) lived out every budding fashionista's fiercest fantasies, complete with cosmos, Manolos, and a seemingly endless parade of eligible bachelors. Geographically, Carrie and I were practically neighbors. But in every other respect, we occupied different worlds entirely. Still, the show gave New York an even higher profile than it had before, and anytime I went back to California for a visit, I'd invariably run into someone from my high school who'd excitedly inquire about my new life in the Big Apple, no doubt expecting cable-worthy stories of late nights at velvet-roped clubs and electric encounters with handsome strangers. I hated to shatter their illusions (of both the city and my social life), but my New York was—is—nothing like that.

My New York is whiskey, straight-up, not something pink and fruity in a martini glass. It's a flowershop/bar in Brooklyn where you can buy a beer and a bouquet for 10 bucks, then head downstairs to the basement for a little jazz played to bearded hipster types on wooden benches. It's the view from the Q train on the Manhattan Bridge. A pale-blue Victorian house on a tree-lined street in a quiet neighborhood. An all-night diner where the waitress calls you "honey" and the TV is always set to Seinfeld reruns or TBS's movie and a makeover. The New York Philharmonic in Central Park. A superhero supply store that sells capes and cans of immortality. Rush hour on the 4/5 to Grand Central.  A table for eight at Dinosaur BBQ. Kayaking on the Hudson. Sunbathing on the Great Lawn.

I'm not generally a stickler for realism—as evidenced both by my affection for shows like Lost and Chuck and by, well, everything I've written thus far on my blog—but I feel the need to set the record straight regarding a few things about this much-fabled city I call home. Sit back, readers: I'm about to lay some truth on you.

TV NY: Anyone can afford a really awesome apartment in a nice Manhattan neighborhood—even people who spend all their time in coffeehouses and regularly throw down hundreds of dollars for shoes. (See: Friends, Sex and the City)
MY NY: Remember Monica and Rachel's (and, later, Monica and Chandler's) super-huge Greenwich Village two-bedroom flat on Friends? It's the Sasquatch of Manhattan real estate. As in: It doesn't exist. And even if it does, no one on that show—except maybe Joey during that month he was rolling in Days of Our Lives dollars—could have paid the rent on it. I mean, did any of them acually work? I know they had "jobs," but I swear they spent, like, 12 hours a day at Central Perk. In my New York, people have to at least pretend to earn their paychecks. And don't even get me started on Carrie Bradshaw's pretty little Upper East Side abode—no once-a-week newspaper columnist could afford that place (even it is rent-controlled) while also trotting around town in a new pair of $500 stilettos every week, dressing head-to-toe in labels, and frequenting all the hottest clubs and restaurants night after night. This city is expensive. It's worth it, but it's expensive. And if you want to live in something bigger than a bathroom and still have a swanky Manhattan address, it's going to cost you a lot of money, a couple of limbs, and, depending on the neighborhood, maybe your first-born son, too. Trust me—I've looked.

TV NY: Brooklyn is where dreams go to die. And Queens is where they're buried. (See: Sex and the City, Ugly Betty, Gossip Girl)
MY NY: Contrary to popular belief, "New York City" does not refer just to Manhattan. There are five—as in, the number of fingers on your hand or the number of people who read my blog (hi, guys!)—boroughs under the NYC umbrella, and they're all unique and great and important in different ways. Brooklyn, my home for the last three years, is not Dante's Seventh Circle of Hell, as SATC's Miranda or GG's Blair might have you believe. It's actually quite lovely. We have houses. And yards. And Target. And though I haven't spent much time in Queens, I have enjoyed the little I've seen of it (meaning the two blocks between the subway and the Astoria beer garden). I love the steady buzz of life in Manhattan, but I also love being able to walk away from it every once in a while. The outer boroughs are great for that. And there are far fewer tourists blocking the sidewalks.

TV NY: All women are either high-powered man-eaters who care only about getting ahead (see: Sex and the City, Cashmere Mafia, Ugly Betty) or Park Avenue princesses who care only about getting a husband (see: Sex and the City, Gossip Girl).
MY NY: Um, some of us are entry-level man-eaters, thank you very much.

TV NY: Magazine editors are prime targets for scandal-hungry gossip columnists and rabid paparazzi. (See: Ugly Betty, Cashmere Mafia, Lipstick Jungle)
MY NY: The sad truth is that the only people who care about print journalism are the people (like me) who have or want a job in print journalism. Vogue EIC Anna Wintour is moderately intriguing to some of the general public, thanks mostly to The Devil Wears Prada and The September Issue, but not even she generates the kind of feverish buzz that surrounds Betty's Wilhelmina or Jungle's Nico. When editors and the like do pop up on TV or in print, it's usually because they're promoting something, not because they've been spotted canoodling with a younger man (Nico) or because they were shot by the illegitimate son of their dead lover's ex-wife (Willi). And there's certainly no juicy TMZ-like cable show devoted to exposing industry goings-on (à la Fashion Buzz with Suzuki St. Pierre)—if there were, I doubt it would be must-see TV for even die-hard tabloid junkies. Oh, and on a related note, no one cares who or what the rich private-school kids on the Upper East Side are doing on a day-to-day basis. I'm looking at you, Gossip Girl. You know you love me. XOXO