Two Years in New York City

“I live in New York City.”

On July 2nd 2022, I said those words for the first time.  

Two years later, I’ll still wake up in the morning, stare out at the Brooklyn sky, and remind myself that this isn’t a dream. I fucking live in New York City. 

Whenever I travel outside of NYC and meet someone new, one of the first questions they ask me is where I’m from. Last year, I would’ve said I was from New York but I’m originally from Toronto. On an earlier trip this year to San Diego and my recent trip to Europe, I just said I was from New York. I wasn’t consciously removing my association from Toronto, it was more subconsciously. Perhaps, that’s yet another milestone that I’m becoming more and more of a New Yorker.  

When does one become a New Yorker anyway? Is it when you start folding your pizza in half? Is it when you start pronouncing Houston Street correctly (it’s not Hew-sten)? Or is it when you start cheering for the Knicks in the playoffs?

Being a New Yorker is not a special badge given to you by the city’s mayor once you reach a certain milestone. If you live in New York, you’re a New Yorker. It’s that simple. 

I know this city better than any other in the world. It’s a city that I fell in love with and fell in love in. And the more I learn about it, the more I love it. 

I wrote an old post on leaving things better than I found it. I see living in a city as a mutual relationship. I can’t just live here and take, take, take. My time in New York has been incredible and I want to do what I can to give back. 

Here’s to another year in New York City 🍻