It’s a mid Friday afternoon. Rain is pouring down (by my California standards) and the tips of my Sperry Top Siders are soaked. My roommates are gone for the weekend – two are in Barcelona, while my third roommate is out and about in Madrid, showing her two friends around our beloved city. I am alone at a café – the first café in Spain I ever went to actually- sitting at a
table with my cappuccino, contemplating getting a crêpe but then I remember the lack of Euros in my wallet. Heck, why not. I’m broke as it is and it’s the perfect day for crêpes and people watching. I have the perfect view of the street  – the two large glass doors sit in front of me and my eyes wander to the wonderful wet world outside.

            A runner passes by in his bright neon orange shirt and yellow shoes, scuttling away at a casual pace up the hill towards Atocha.  A story plays out in my head – he lives with his wife and two kids – a boy, 13, and a girl, 9. Probably a business man, a casual runner, and enjoys a nice whiskey at night.  A pair of foreigners sit next to me – speaking in a heavily accented English I can’t quite decipher, sipping each on a café con leche, reminiscing of their youth summers spent somewhere in England. A woman in her late thirties strolls by pushing a stroller, likely a young baby girl wrapped up inside, judging by the pink blankets peeking out from underneath the umbrella. Nothing out of the usual.  Spain you’re boring me – Where are the people running to and from the train station as if their life depended upon it? Where are the crazies? Where are my people?

            People watching has come to be one of my favorite activities in New York – where else in the world do you have access to individuals as eccentric and as electric and as stubborn and as, well, New York? (Yes, I did just use “New York” as an adjective – you’d only understand if you’ve lived here). Where else can you find a woman dressed in all black, standing tall in five-inch stilettos, sipping on a latté, with three hours of sleep under her belt, living the dream? You simply can’t. Nowhere else in the world will you find people as happy to be killing themselves as you will in New York. They work 70-hour weeks, find time to go out at night, and pay more than a small fortune for a shoebox of an apartment. But they’re living in the Big Apple – hoping, dreaming, wishing that their dream of becoming the next big Broadway star or Wall Street exec will come true. They feign the excitement of working for an asshole and getting next to nothing in return.  I guess it’s just part of being a New Yorker.

            You will never feel more alone than you do in a city of millions – that much is true. But while living in New York, you’re part of something bigger than yourself, an unspeakable bond unites us – the aspiring actresses, the recent college grads, the wannabe big shots. We eat dollar pizza, not because it’s good, but because it’s a dollar. We go early to clubs so we don’t have to pay a cover. Yet, we will spend $300 on a pair of fabulous heels, because appearance is everything – it’s part of the never-ending illusion of being a New Yorker. But here, in Madrid, in a country more friendly than your creepy neighbor in apartment 2C, in a city where the taxi cabbies smile at you and the men buy you drinks without a second thought – you are more alone than you think.  It’s not that you lack friends – the other study abroad students, the foreigners, the Madrileños just don’t understand. There is no mutual understanding of “struggling to make it”– everybody is relaxed, moving at a snails pace, eating dinner for hours on end as if there was nothing else more important in the world. In a country where the conversation is as important as the food on the table, I’m at a loss for words with those around me.

            I feel the word lonely is used to describe somebody lost and by themselves – in a somewhat unhappy state, unaware of their own being. And while, yes, I am alone by pure definition of the word; I cannot feel any more aware of myself in this present moment. Nothing screams struggling writer like a twenty-something year old, sitting alone at a Café, sipping on a coffee, dressed in an oversized cream sweater from Urban Outfitters, with a messy bun on top of her head. All she’s missing are some large D&G glasses, a pencil behind her ear and a notebook in an overused black Longchamp. I’m watching myself, aware of my own being, aware of the stares as I type away feverishly. I am aware of my appearance as a New Yorker – jaded, opinionated, and unimpressed of everything around me as I people watch outside the large glass windows.

            I first began to refer to myself as a New Yorker when I moved to Spain to study abroad. Every time my Mom skyped me, she would ask if I was home sick? My answer, without fail was – “Yeah, I miss New York terribly”. The disappointment on her face yielded an equally disapproving response in her eyes – “It’s my home, Mom, you’d never understand.” Her only reply “New York has changed you”. Living in the city transformed me from a carefree and laidback California girl to an uptight, busy young adult, whose life is dictated by the calendar appointments in my iPhone. Similar to the bright lights of Times Square – my life in New York is simply an impressive façade. My newfound beauty routine hides my lack of sleep and the slew of friends who pose for pictures with me at clubs usually forget about my existence by the weekends end.  I appeared to be a New Yorker on the outside and tricked myself into thinking the same.

            I haven’t even lived a full twelve months in the city, yet, when I meet people, I find myself telling them I’m from New York. Spaniards are instantly mesmerized – a bit confused as to why I would ever leave the mystique that is New York, but so am I. Leaving the city has made me realize how much of a New Yorker I am not, but I guess to become one you have to leave and appreciate everything that the city is. The more I realize the way I act and eat and dress and drink and fill-in-the-blank here, the more I realize how much the essence of being a New Yorker is the illusion of having it all together.  And while I am rather composed on the outside, I cannot even begin to fit the puzzle pieces together on the inside.  A true New Yorker knows what they want and when and are not afraid to tell anybody about it. I, on the other hand, do not know what I want, let alone know who I am. I just know I am not a New Yorker. Not yet anyways.

 Quote of the Day: ” One belongs to New York instantly, one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years” – Tom Wolfe