New York City: Where Your Personal Space is a Myth and Your Coffee is 90% Caffeine

Ah, New York City. The city that never sleeps, probably because it’s too busy yelling into a phone while walking 12 miles per hour down 5th Avenue. If you’ve ever visited, you know it’s not just a city—it’s a full-contact sport with better bagels.

Let’s start with the people. 

New Yorkers are famously “direct.” That’s the polite way of saying they’ll tell you to “move it or lose it” if you stop suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk to consult Google Maps. And hey, fair enough. I once saw a man sprint across the street during a red light while eating a slice of pizza, talking on the phone, and texting—all at the same time. Multitasking? More like multisurviving.

Then there’s the public transportation. The subway is like a real-life game of “Which Way Is This Train Actually Going?” Spoiler: It’s not the way you want. And the announcements? They’re delivered in a robotic voice that sounds like a GPS unit having an existential crisis. “Next stop: Brooklyn. Or possibly Queens. We’ll let you know when we figure it out.”

And don’t get me started on the doors. 

Subway doors close with the urgency of a shark smelling blood. If you’re even thinking about getting on, you’re already late. The unspoken rule is: if you can fit, you must fit. I once saw a man squeeze into a packed car with a folding table. A folding table. Meanwhile, I couldn’t fit my dignity.

Now, let’s talk about space. In New York, personal space is a luxury only enjoyed by people in movies who live in apartments the size of Rhode Island. In reality, your closet might double as a bedroom, and your bathroom probably has a sink that doubles as a shower. I once lived in a studio where I could flush the toilet, turn off the stove, and answer the door—all from my bed. Efficiency!

And the noise! Sirens? Check. 

Construction at 6 a.m.? Obviously. A guy practicing saxophone on the corner at midnight? Absolutely. New Yorkers don’t need an alarm clock—we have the symphony of urban chaos. It’s like Mother Nature, but with more traffic and fewer birds.

But here’s the thing: despite all this madness, you’ll fall in love with the city. Because where else can you get a $1.50 slice of pizza at 3 a.m., watch a Broadway show, and then argue with a street vendor about whether a hot dog is a sandwich (it’s not, by the way—don’t @ me)?

New York is exhausting, overwhelming, and occasionally smells like garbage in the summer (shoutout to 90-degree sidewalk egg salad weather). But it’s also electric, vibrant, and full of people who are just trying to survive the daily obstacle course of existing here.

So if you visit, wear comfortable shoes, learn to walk fast, and for the love of bagels—never stand on the left side of the escalator. That’s the fast lane, tourist. You’re not in Kansas anymore. You’re in New York, where even the pigeons have a five-year plan.

Welcome to the city that eats the bold and spits out the slow. And hey—thanks for not blocking the door.

Now move.