As the time came to board the bus back to Philadelphia on Sunday night, after three really good days in New York City, I started feeling the usual: relief plus validation. Relief because I’m always happy to come home. I’m a little bit smug in the knowledge that I picked the right city to live in. I love living in Philadelphia. I love living here because I find it to be (Philly attitude and all) an exceedingly gentle city (with the exception of the universal horror of the Philly driving culture). Philly has a vibrant art scene, a delicious food scene, architecture, history, quality of life, and affordability to recommend it. NYC has that odd way of making my spine tingle with the unfettered sense of possibility that makes me want to run around giggling. NYC is recklessly overstimulating. I LOVE the people watching in New York. It is awesome. But my wallet lies flat like dessicated husk whenever I leave Manhattan. And what I love more than being overstimulated is being relaxed. I love the fact that I never ever feel stressed out when I’m commuting home in Philadelphia–even annoying setbacks in public transportation are generally manageable. The distances aren’t that great in my life. I can walk if I must. (This distance thing includes emotional, financial, and intellectual distances–it’s a metaphor). In New York, there’s a low level but endless grind that makes me feel like my soul is constantly battling tiny little scratches to its vital organs. That said, I’ll be scratched to death while sitting in a restaurant with a really fabulous interior design, which might distract me way past soul death. On the other hand, back home in Philadelphia, I feel like my soul drinks smoothies, listens to Mozart, and gets regular massages–even if the setting is less fantastic (and nothing feels more like a fairy tale come true than when I walk the High Line Park in Manhattan). I like the Philly option better. That’s just me.
And in fairness, I already had my five years in Manhattan and I loved every second of those years.