The TexPatch has been on a brief hiatus, celebrating the end of summer. Back in the Big Apple from the beach, most days it has felt like the thick of the sunny season, rather than the advance of autumn. We’ve been shedding instead of adding layers in September as the mercury has spiked up and down. An Indian summer that feels like home – though a lot more humid than Big D’s swelter.
I encourage my fellow Texans to experience New York, even if it’s just a short visit. To open your mind and shed your fears and jump into the pool. It’s not a cesspool, really (for the most part). And though the two places seem to be polar opposites, there’s both an extravagance and a wilderness vibe to the City that a Texan can truly appreciate. There’s a swagger in the step that feels familiar. There’s a haughtiness about the supremacy of the Yankees that is similar to our love of the ‘Boys. And New York has actually done well by many Texans: Liz Smith, Tommy Tune, Tom Ford, Lela Rose and, of course, goddess Beyonce, to name a few.
Ride the subway. Not during rush hour, of course, but riding the rails gives you a fuller flavor of the City, its tribes, its idiosyncrasies, its characters. Over the past few days alone, I have experienced: fashionistas in their full NY Fashion Week plumage (toting handbags worth a decade of Metro Cards); a Mexican acoustic guitar serenade; a self-published poet-preneur in a pink blazer and a straw hat hawking his most recent collection, “Don’t Beat Your Kids or They’ll Turn Out Like Me!”; not to mention every ethnicity, age, gender, class and orientation imaginable.
I have friends who only tackle the City via car service or taxi. It is certainly more luxurious and sensitive to the senses that way, like a Woody Allen film or an issue of Vogue. But sometimes it’s worth it to throw your feet into the fire and dance on the coals. Otherwise, what’s the point of living in a crazy place like NY?