There’s nothing else like construction in New York City. It’s quick, easy, plenty will do it and it will certainly do.
The place we found in Crown Heights looked as though a bomb had gone off in it, but the broker assured us that it would be done in 10 days. 10 days? I couldn’t imagine two rooms being done in 10 days back home in California. It’s just the pace here.
The pace: quicker than I’d realized hitherto. Everyone always goes, moves, works, constantly. And if they’re not working, they’re talking about work. And if they’re not talking about work, they’re probably working. It’s all about doing something here, purely so the doer can keep up with the pace. It is a cyclical, well-oiled wheel that turns by its citizens’ power as they exert unwavering effort– pushing, always pushing forward.
It’s a motivating atmosphere, to be sure. LA also had a motivating atmosphere, and people work there a lot as well. Residents always seek out new projects and endeavors. But the purpose isn’t to keep up, it’s to have something to do apart from the day job, some creative outlet in a world of traffic and celebrity.
New York’s work environment stands in stark contrast to anywhere I’ve ever been employed. I intern at a literary agency. I edit proposals, do research and read manuscripts that writers send, to-be-novels in hopeful manila envelopes, then write reports telling agents whether or not they should look into the project. I am commissioned amongst hardened lawyers, perky assistants and book-lovers turned publishing agents. The office is bright, airy, with floor-to-ceiling book displays, light wood and white walls. I find I’m much more fidgety than the bulk of my coworkers. While they rapidly buy lunch, return to their desks and eat/work, I sit in Union Square on a leisurely break, taking in the sun. Careful: I fear my California is showing.
I wonder if my pace will also change, become significantly more rapid. I suppose it already has.
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