A West Village State of Mind

One of my favorite things to do while visiting a new city is to chat with the locals. Delving into someone else’s mind and life for a little while is like a sweet escape from reality. I was only in NYC for 2 days last week and met a handful of interesting people – a Russian bartender, an Italian waiter and a tourist from Hamburg, Germany. They all had diverse backgrounds and such compelling stories to share about their time spent in the city that never sleeps; yet they had one thing in common – an intense pride in being a New Yorker.

I spent my first night in the city wandering around the West Village, struggling to make a decision on a restaurant. I was overwhelmed with the number of small, eclectic restaurants jam-packed onto almost every street corner. After about an hour of walking around aimlessly, I ducked into Trattoria Toscana, a picturesque Italian restaurant boasting an old-fashioned red awning and wooden doors.

There’s just something about cozying up to a bar, in a hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant in a city you can just get lost in. My waiter, Mario, was originally from Genoa, Italy (although he quickly corrected me to say that according to Italians it’s GEN-va, not Gen-O-a). Mario moved to the US from Italy 30 years ago and has been in NYC ever since. He’s lived in the same rent-controlled apartment in the East Village for the past 10 years, with his daughter and son-in-law living two floors above him. His wife is Spanish and his grandson, only one and a half, is already trilingual – speaking Spanish, English and Italian.

For some odd reason, I appreciated the fact that Mario didn’t notice my southern accent. He did tell me he visited North Carolina once and wasn’t too impressed. When I asked if he liked the South he gave a one-word answer: “ehhh” (hey, at least he was honest.)

Mario was constantly greeting people and kissing patrons on cheeks. He told me what he loved most about living in NYC was that from day one, you are considered a New Yorker; that in Europe, if you move from your home country to another country, you are always considered a foreigner.

Over the course of the next few days, I met a Russian bartender at a Mexican restaurant and a businessman from Hamburg, Germany. The bartender, an older woman originally from Moscow, still retained her thick Russian accent. She told me about how much she loved NYC’s climate over Moscow’s bitingly cold winters.

The next evening, I visited The Standard Grill in the meatpacking district to meet up with one of my best friends. While I was waiting, I sat at the bar talking to a man from Hamburg, Germany, who had finally moved to NYC after visiting over forty time. He and I bonded quickly over Spanish ham (don’t ask), as we both watched, mesmerized, as a chef started skinning the meat off of a pig in plain sight.

It’s crazy to me that I met all of these interesting people in just two short days in the city. They were so thankful to be in the US, living in a city where you have the freedom to do whatever you want. This trip made me realize more than ever that I definitely take being an American for granted. I’ve moved around quite a bit – NC, DC and now Chicago – and I always feel accepted (for the most part anyways) wherever I go. I can’t imagine living in a country and always feeling alienated, almost as if I didn’t belong.

I’ve visited NYC several times over the past few years, but my time spent in the West Village was definitely the most memorable. I’ll definitely be stopping by my new favorite Italian restaurant next time I’m in town to say hi to Mario.

Arrivederci!