When I first came to Stern College in New York so many years ago, I felt like an alien who just landed from Planet Pennsylvania. Thank goodness I wasn’t alone. There were kids from all over the country: Missouri, Ohio, Maryland, Washington and Florida. Most of us “out-of-towners” gravitated to one another, and then stuck together like glue—for dear life. Yes, it was exciting but overwhelming too.
We were like another species. Our clothing was functional, weworenondescript jean skirts and blouses, and the only labels on our clothes were for size and washing directions. I was intrigued by the effortless chic and sophistication of the local girls who comfortably navigated through Macy’s and Loehmann’s, and who casually wore designer labels. As for our hair styles, they were basically variations of the same long limp hair parted sharply down the middle. The “locals” were far savvier when it came to hair, some went to expensive salons, but they also knew where to go for the best deals. Who knew that Vidal Sassoon had students who gave free haircuts? And every Friday, like clockwork, there was the one from the Five Towns who got her hair styled in a long Wonder Woman flip for Shabbat.
Then, when we opened our mouths to speak, a motley sampling of accents poured out. Even though the sounds of our accents depended on the part of the country from which we hailed, the pace of our speech was usually much slower. I loved how the Midwesterners spoke in a sing- song meandering way. In contrast, the New Yorkers spoke so fast without any gaps, or pauses. It was as if their speech reflected the hustle and bustle of the city streets: fast and without any extra space.
Manhattan was endlessly fascinating with pulsing round the clock action and lights that never dimmed, like back home. Knowing that famous people lived here, I searched faces for celebrities. My roommate who could care less about famous people, entered our room one afternoon with a sly grin, “You’ll never guess who I saw,” she teased. Finally when she said it was Paul McCartney, my favorite Beatle, I tried extracting all the details like if he was as cute in person, but it was like pulling teeth because she couldn’t remember.
Words of advice were regularly issued to us out of town gals: “Don’t make eye contact with anyone on the subway.” They warned that it would mark us as tourists and not New Yorkish, ultimately targets for muggers and the like. That didn’t seem difficult for the locals who seemed annoyed with the subways, but I had to concentrate on looking blasé. I wanted to watch all the underground drama unfold until the conductor said “step lively” as the subway came to a jolting stop at our destination.
My wide-eyed wonder extended to the kosher restaurants. Back home, there weren’t any, and eating out wasn’t an option. Here we even had a few choices: Shmulke Bernstein’s, Moshe Peking for special occasions and there were a smattering of pizza stores. We’d take the subway downtown to “Shmulke’s” on the Lower East Side and stand on a long line because it was usually crowded, but it was worth the wait. Who could forget the number three on the Bernstein menu? Fried rice, juicy ribs and egg rolls dripping with oil—by far the best and most delicious bargain. Thick smells of pickles and spices enveloped the air and Jewish stores dotted the streets of the Lower East Side. It was like entering another country, just a subway ride away.
A few years later, I transferred to New York University and loved dorming in the Village. Then when I graduated, I lived on The West Side in the era when Lincoln Square Synagogue was the epicenter for singles, and was there until I was no longer single.
Now after all these years, I still get a kick out of going back into the city. Since I live in Teaneck, New Jersey, wearing my sneakers so that I can walk to my destination, I take the bus to Port Authority. My fascination with the subways has long ago subsided and is now purely utilitarian. I’m just interested in getting to my destination quickly. No one has to remind me about not making eye contact; I’ve become a blasé subway rider.
This past week, I walked to the East Side and through Central Park in order to get to an appointment. Even now, I still scan crowds for celebrities. Over the years I’ve spotted my fair share: Jacqueline Kennedy outside of Saks, Gloria Steinem at an ATM, Billy Crystal, Meredith Viera and Liza Minnelli walking past me on the Upper East Side. I even sat across from an orange haired Jackie Mason in the old Famous Dairy Restaurant on the Upper West Side.
Strolling slowly uptown on a beautiful warm summerday, I watched a few street entertainers in Times Square, then an amateur puppet show in Central Park. A young woman wore a shirt with a logo that said, “only boring people get bored.”
Can anyone get bored in Manhattan? Really??
Our environments really do influence and change us in so many ways—a little more of that and a little less of this. When I return to Pennsylvania to visit my relatives, among other things, what strikes me is how the pace of my speech has become so much faster compared to theirs.
But, basic attitudes and perceptions formed in childhood just don’t seem to change. Even though I’ve been living in this area for so long, just the other day I said to a friend, “I’m still an out-of-town girl,” and at heart that’s how I feel.
By Esther Kook
