From Michelle Chihara, (the section formerly known as) TriTeca Editor:
"Hungry and frozen, it's the life that we've chosen." -- Jonathan Larson, in Rent
On Christmas day, when I was about nine, I insisted that my father watch, in the rain, while I used garbage bags as galoshes to wade waist-deep into a field-turned-lava-pit of manure and mud, calling my rented pony Chester's name. Needless to say, my parents stopped supporting my horse-riding habit soon after. But I nurtured a dream of living on a ranch well into junior high school.
Now, people call me a City Girl. It's true that I've never lived anywhere as rural as Berkshire County, Massachusetts, before. But people call me a city girl primarily because I maintain an irrational attachment to Manhattan.
At thirteen, I visited the city for a week. Had high tea at the Plaza. Spent a day wandering around trying to prove wrong the theory that people in New York don't smile. I succeeded. At seventeen, I accompanied my uncle, the composer, to opening night of his show on Broadway. His music was extraordinary; the production was terrible. It flopped. But in those few days before reviews came out, I was related to a star. Maitres'd were nice to us. I got to wear an extravagant dress to the cast party, and met all of the leads. Enthralled, I was desperate to go back.
I ended up near New York for college, and spent the summer after my junior year there with a boyfriend. Totally overcome by the gruesome real estate market, I managed to live in a number of apartments over the course of three months. Most were in the East Village this was when it was actually a more affordable region. As soon as we walked by Tompkins Square Park and the squatters, dogs, cafes, bars, bodegas, community gardens I fell in love with the whole heady, over-stimulating mess. I didn't know that I wouldn't be able to afford the cafes with tables on the sidewalk. I didn't know that I wasn't the first to discover the Life Cafe on the corner of C and 10th (if you don't know it, let's just say that it's an East Village institution). I loved it that my friends' parents didn't want their progeny to visit my neighborhood. I just wanted to live there.
I wasn't alone. Rent, the Broadway musical about a crew of young artists, rode the rising crest of the East Village's popularity all the way to a box-office hit. I think once a piece of popular culture glorifies a neighborhood, or a group, or a generation's Bohemian nature, it's a sure sign that the Bohemian nature is gone. I know a fair number of starving actors. Most of them can no longer afford to live in the East Village (they live in Brooklyn).
I saw Rent (and paid 20 bucks for rush tickets, thank you) when I still lived in so-called Bohemia. But the show only aggravated my nagging feeling that I was, well, a poser. Sure, I was living paycheck-to-paycheck at a job with no guarantees. And yes, I was tormented by soul-searching thoughts about how to stay true to myself. And I was living with a starving actor, a writer, a filmmaker, an activist...
But we were all relatively privileged. We weren't junkies. We didn't have AIDS. Was I a real East Village-ite? Did I need to get an eyebrow-ring? Would that make me more or less of a poser?
So, when the job came up at Tripod, I couldn't say no. It was exactly what I wanted to be doing online editorial, creative control at a great company. I had never dreamed that I would move to a tiny town in the Berkshires. But then, as a kid I had always thought I would grow up, buy a ranch, and raise thoroughbreds. Besides, I didn't move to the Berkshires, I moved to Tripod. Companies and jobs like this are rare. The decision was painful, but not hard.
Now, my wonderful new housemate insists that people stare at her when she goes to New York. I say they just think she's cute, that no one cares what you do in New York. When I visit the city now, I lose myself in the anonymity of the crowds. Once I've ditched my car in an over-priced lot, it's a gift to walk from place to place, distracted by the smells and colors like a kid who needs her Ritalin. I lose hours wandering around. Manhattan has started to feel like some sort of Holy Grail for me. I feel like I'm destined never to live there, only to pine for it.
But what I realize, when I'm being truthful to myself, is that I pined for New York while I was there. I pined for an even truer New York experience even more intense, more transformative. I miss the museums and the nightlife, yes, but I couldn't afford most of it while I lived there. What I had, what I miss most, are the people who live there. I have a lot of friends there. Most of them don't have eyebrow piercings. A lot of them don't even live in the East Village. Leaving has made me realize how most of the people I hold dear have, if you'll pardon the expression, stayed true to themselves.
I would never want to be the kind of person who judged others by zip code, so I cannot do the same to myself. I plan to visit New York regularly. But I also plan to continue soul-searching while living here in North Adams. Rent is a crock. It's a glorious crock, and I recommend seeing it. But Bohemia is where you find it.
Michelle, (the section formerly known as) TriTeca Editor (2/14/97)
Read more "Letters from Tripod" in the archive.