Clairely

These Vagabond Shoes (Cost $752)

So I moved to New York and I love it. Not in the snobbish, this-city-is-the-center-of-the-universe, I'm-going-to-refer-to-myself-as-a-local-even-though-I've-only-lived-here-one-week sense. No, not like that. I love New York in the way that I love the MTV show My Super Sweet Sixteen. You know, the one about teenage girls named Brandi who throw lavish Sweet 16 parties and can't decide which BMW model they'd rather get, so they ask their daddies to buy them both. I'm drawn to that show, repulsed and yet intrigued because I can't believe that people actually live like that. That's basically how I feel about New York.

This city is full of trendy people in bizarre clothing who wear $300 shoes to walk around on sidewalks that smell like urine. Also, I just can't get over the litter. A Styrofoam cup here or there makes sense to me, but some people throw full cartons of Chinese food, noodles and everything, right on the street. Tonight I saw a huge pile of wrapping paper, bows and greeting cards dumped on the strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street, right next to parallel parked cars. Clearly someone had a party and then when they loaded the presents into the car, they decided to leave the wrapping paper behind. This is beyond my comprehension. Haven't they never heard of Smoky the Bear or McGruff or whichever cartoon character came to my elementary school and told me not to litter? Have they not seen the 1970s commercial with the crying Indian?  For a city so progressive, this place is kind of backwards.

But aside from the trash and the urine and the smelly subways, New York is really pretty cool. So far I've been to a Bulgarian night club; a 1920s speakeasy; a Broadway play called Curtains, starring Niles from Frasier; Central Park; a creepy hellhole called Coney Island; and once I tried to stalk Paul Newman by going to a restaurant I heard he frequented, but he evaded me by not eating there that night. Also by aging 40 years and no longer being hot. And by discontinuing my favorite salad dressing.

I have yet to stalk David Bowie. He supposedly lives in Manhattan, but I'm not so sure I believe that. Sometimes, I don't think he really exists. I just can't picture him doing normal, everyday things. Does he ever shop at the grocery store? Do people run into him at the local market? "Oh, hey, it's David Bowie, the man who wore giant space shoes and a bright red mullet, may or may not have had mansex with Mick Jagger—oh, and he's buying some Shredded Wheat." No, that never happens. Because David Bowie is made up. Or maybe he exists in a more ethereal, intangible sense, like Love or Happiness. Or Santa Claus.

New York is so big and I've only been here for three weeks. I have done so much but I haven't even scratched the surface. I may have lightly grazed the surface, snagged a nail on its cashmere sweater or something, but it'll be months before I am able to leave a mark.

The Big (and by "Big" I mean 400 sq. ft. efficiency) Apple

I'm moving to New York in August, so last week I booked a cheap flight (Jet Blue: "If We Give You Your Own Tiny TV And Show You Seven Episodes of Scrubs, Maybe You Won't Notice That We're Three Hours Late") to the city and searched for apartments. I learned many things about myself over the weekend, things like: I can't afford an apartment with closets. I can't afford an apartment with a kitchen. And sometimes, depending on the location, I can't afford an apartment with a floor. I thought it might be nice to live in SoHo, but I ruled that out when I discovered that I'd have to walk up five flights of stairs and fold myself up into a box of Grape-Nuts. I could do Cheerios, maybe, but Grape-Nuts come in those mini-cereal boxes, probably because nobody wants to eat an entire 15 oz. box of whole grain wheat and barley clusters.

Here is my synopsis of New York apartment-hunting, based on my vast experience of looking at Craigslist ads and then spending one weekend in the city.

Most apartments in New York are rented through brokerage companies, so instead of meeting the building's landlord or owner, you meet a sweaty little man in a cheap suit who tries to convince you that even if you're going to school on W. 116th Street, you'd really rather live all the way across town on  E. 22nd Street. "This is a great location!" he will tell you, his pit-stains slowly seeping, larger and larger, across his chest, "just 32 stops on the subway and you're right there." If you're lucky, he might smell like onions.

The first apartment you see will be a 2-bedroom apartment with only one bedroom. "The other bedroom is the living room," the sweaty man will say when you look at him suspiciously, and then he will explain that if you run a clothesline from the edge of the refrigerator – by the way, the kitchen is also in the living room – to the opposite wall, there should just be enough room for a twin mattress, and maybe a pile of clothes ("your closet," he'll call it). Wondering if his stench is Vidalia or Pearl, you will move on.

The next apartment will be so significantly superior to the first that you'll think you've found your new home, until you realize that you can't turn around in the shower. Sure, the kitchen countertops are granite and the hardwood floors have been refinished, but what if you drop the soap? This apartment will be approximately 300 sq. ft.

The third apartment will have a bedroom with dimensions narrower than your height, and if you lay down, your head and feet will graze the walls. The fourth apartment will have roaches. The fifth apartment will have termites. The sixth apartment will have a lovely woman named Brandi who offers you a good time and an unidentified blue and yellow pill, much like the one found in that Dragnet episode with the teenage boy who takes LSD and then paints his face blue and then Jack Webb sends him to jail.

You will repeat this process three or four times with several different brokers. Some of them won't smell like onions. Some of them will smell like hot dogs. And then you'll finally meet one who seems normal. He'll still wear the cheap suit, but his perspiration will be under control and the light scent of CK One will – aside from reminding you of scrunchies, Doc Martins and the Rachel haircut – be a welcome respite.  His name will be Darren he will show you an apartment with windows. The apartment will also have kitchen that is separate from the bedroom. You will think Darren is a genius and you will give him all of the money in your bank account.

The New York apartment experience will change your life. It will make new thoughts run through your head, thoughts you never would have considered before, such as, "I guess I could store my shoes in the sink." You will come to appreciate every square inch of your apartment. You will take up yoga and practice contorting your body into various space-saving positions, and you will never look at another box of Grape-Nuts the same again. And when your friends back home ask you how things are going, you will give them a big smile and say, "Wonderful! New York is the only place I'd ever want to live."