It’s Not for Everyone. But We Like It This Way — Notes from the UWS Grump Squad

by Yvonne Vávra

The day had just begun, and I already needed a break from it. I watched with simmering irritation as a blob of tourists oozed out of a bus and into the entrance of Central Park at 72nd Street. I’m grumpy about people who travel in groups of sixty. I’m grumpy about most things in the morning. But these full-bus travelers are a menace. They don’t know where they’re going or why. They feel safe in their herd, which makes them a danger to themselves and others.

I escaped into the thicket. But after my dog had completed his full investigation of every lingering smell from the night before, my grump wasn’t ready to move on. It dragged me back to one of the benches flanking the park entrance to sit and stew a little longer.

Another blob of sixty approached — bursting at the seams, spilling in every direction, with no regard for space or other life forms. And then I heard: “People, people — you’re not the ocean. Be a puddle. Tighten up. Others gotta get by. This is New York.”

It was the tour guide, and it was love at first sight for me.

I braced for the usual speech about John Lennon getting shot in front of the Dakota, and the list of unworthy celebrities denied by the almighty co-op board. But instead, this award-worthy tour guide launched into an ode to the billowing steam rising from the sidewalk at the Dakota’s corner. “Don’t you worry, New York’s just blowin’ off a little steam. That’s how the city works, okay? It’s all underground. Miles and miles of pipes bringin’ energy to the buildings.” She explained that what we were seeing — and by now I was hanging on her every word — was condensation from cooler water hitting the hot pipes underground. Or maybe a leaking pipe.

“Whatchu think, an old steam stack’s weird or what in a modern city? Listen, we love the stacks. If it wasn’t for ’em blowin’ the hot air up, we’d all be gettin’ burnt, okay? It’d be sprayin’ in our faces, okay? If that seems behind the times to you, then maybe New York isn’t for you, okay? It’s not for everyone. But we like it this way.”

She kept ranting along these lines, and as far as I could tell, no one in the group had said a word to provoke it. It seemed she just needed to let off a little personal steam herself, and we were all here for it.

After she’d said all there was to say about funnels and pipes, she got the blob moving toward Strawberry Fields. Then she spun around: “Oh, and John Lennon got shot there. Moving on!”

There was not a shred of morning blob grump left in me.

As the group wobbled off, I watched the steam drift straight into the windows of the Dakota.  Even in multimillion-dollar apartments, you’re still taking in the same gutter breath as the rest of us. You think you made it, but the city’s still gonna cough in your window.

I’m not pretending we’re all in the same boat — some of us have yachts. The inequality is visible, constant, maddening. So no, the struggles aren’t equal, but some of them are universal.

A mouse will find its way into your apartment, no matter the price per square foot. Your neighbor will be heard, smelled, and then some. It’s always too hot or too cold, never anything in between. The streets will honk into your ear and trap you in traffic, garbage will pile on your block, the heat will clank, and elevators will be up to no good. No matter how few the steps you still have to take yourself, a New York winter will eventually land you knee-deep in a slush puddle. And no matter how high you make it, there will always be someone higher, right in front of your face. Not to mention the tourist blobs you have to navigate. Ugh, I just mentioned them. They’re making me lose control, you see?

The city gets under everyone’s skin, and that’s when it levels us. Just a little. And don’t we carry the disaster like a badge of honor? Like E.B. White already realized in 1949: “New Yorkers temperamentally do not crave comfort and convenience — if they did they would live elsewhere.” We want it the hard way. Why? Because we’re harder.

That’s our social glue. The daily misery reminds us we’re part of a special species that can handle all evils, head held high. Knowing that if I don’t hiss at the tourist blob, one of you will — that’s the kind of thing that makes me feel warm and comforted, right in the middle of the mess. And we get to complain about it. Oh, the joys of shared grumpiness! It’s a form of belonging all its own.

That morning at the park entrance, the tour guide took care of us. She tamed a blob, kept it out of our way, and let off a little steam—for all of us. A bit of preventive griping, just in case anyone was thinking of questioning our life choices.

Let’s not forget another E.B. White observation: “But the city makes up for its hazards and its deficiencies by supplying its citizens with massive doses of a supplementary vitamin—the sense of belonging to something unique, cosmopolitan and unparalleled.”

Or, in the words of the tour guide of the week: “It’s not for everyone. But we like it this way.”

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Yvonne Vávra is a magazine writer and author of the German book 111 Gründe New York zu lieben (111 Reasons to Love New York). Born a Berliner but an aspiring Upper West Sider since the 1990s (thanks, Nora Ephron), she came to New York in 2010 and seven years later made her Upper West Side dreams come true. She’s been obsessively walking the neighborhood ever since.

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