I am not even kidding when I say that the first song I heard upon arriving in New York City was Alicia Keys’ Empire State of Mind. You’d almost assume it was a clichéd “welcome to New York” mix-tape that the jovial shuttle bus driver prepared for all of his journeys with snap-happy tourists, but since the tune was swiftly followed by a radio commercial for pharmaceuticals that included at least 60 seconds of dire health and side effect warnings (just one of the many things one gets used to on this side of the Pacific that are frequently comical, if not a little worrisome) I was convinced that it was little more than a happy accident.
There are a lot of those around here, actually.
For instance, I had no idea that when I was what I misguidedly thought was a hopeless loser in high school would prove to be so beneficial all these years later. Rather than going to parties like everybody else was doing, I was spending time on the internet talking to people I never had any expectation of meeting in real life. What a blissful turn of events that all that time spent on horror movie forums and reading American blogs that were as obsessed with Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge as I, would result in me still being friends with the people I met on there. Nearly 15 years later and these first few weeks of American living has seen be crashing on couches and in spare rooms of various people I have come to know through the wonders of the internet. Whether it’s Pacific Grove, Washington Heights, Astoria, or the Upper West Side, I’ve been so grateful to their hospitality and friendship that I definitely feel vindicated. Some people will have blurred drunken memories from their later high school years; I have New York. Fair trade?
I have been in tourist mode for several weeks now, but having been here twice before I think I’m doing a better job at blending in than most. This is, after all, a city where, according to the 2012 census that I found on Google that may or may not even be accurate, nearly 22% of residents weren’t even born in America (not to mention the tourists – oh gosh, all the tourists!) so there really isn’t all that much to feel special about. Foreigners are a dime a dozen so I figure I may as well try and localise myself – as long as I don’t have to start spelling words like “localise” with a z! Of course, for all the rather simple things that I have gotten accustomed to, my eyes do continue to pop whenever I see the gastronomical serving sizes and my face does still contort when trying to figure out the age old question of, “how much do I tip?”
Contrary to popular belief, New Yorkers can be a very friendly bunch and many are willing to smile and lend a helpful hand when they hear an unfamiliar accent or see a quizzical look upon someone’s face as they stare into the abyss that is a New York City subway map. For all the surely blasé attitudes that many locals must have towards interlopers such as myself, “where are you from?” is still just as common question as, “how are you, today?” Furthermore, many will throw a “good luck” my way just as often as they will warn of New York rental shortages and apologise for their fellow boorish nationals.
So I have decided that there’s no sense in pretending that I’m anything other than a foreigner in a strange land. Especially when this accent I have keeps outing me to waiters, subway patrons, and bartenders alike. Oh yes, it has its advantages in that regard. What’s the sense in being an Australian overseas – one of the more popular nationalities over here, for sure – if you can’t use it to make acquaintances a little easier and have the person behind the bar flirt with you a little more than they otherwise might? We’ll just keep it a secret that I’m as incredibly unextraordinary as the next guy, yeah?
Image credit: Kathryn Sprigg
