NYC vs the Small Town
Reality has something to say about the idyllic country life
I live in an average co-op apartment in Manhattan with a part-time 70-year-old doorman and no gym, no pool, no public space, and a basement full of collective laundry machines. My front door opens onto lower Broadway where the only signs of nature are seasonal hanging plants on antique lampposts and the occasional sidewalk outbreak of horrible invasive Lantern Flies which I stomp in demonic frenzy like a winemaking bacchante. I frequent the Catskills and Berkshires because the country girl in my heart misses the expansive embrace of peaceful tree giants that don’t mind my insignificance on the face of the planet and don’t criticize the progress I have made. To them and to the boulders and lakes I am still young and have a long way to go, even though I have been striving for growth for more than half a century. Nature treats everyone the same whether you earn a high salary or are barely able to afford a morning bagel from a coffee cart. The trees are mentors. You can breathe in their shade, looking up at their highest branches. You can take comfort in the fact that they too, were seedlings once, even though their branches now touch the face of the sun.
Whenever I visit, I enjoy long walks in the woods, and then stop by the country homes of my friends for a glass of red wine by their fire or for a glass of white while…
