"I love living in the village," he said. "We'd love to get you here."
In my mind, living in NYC would be all Sex in the City, and Harriet the Spy, and Woody Allen movies. It'd be Central Park and funky little coffee shops and fabulous shoes and visits to the art museum. It'd be trendy evenings eating canapes with my hip multicultural friends. There'd be funky glasses lady, and cool dreadlocks guy, and we'd wear messenger bags and our conversations would be deliberately ironic. The kids would learn Spanish from their playmates in the building. Miles Davis would be the soundtrack to our lives.
In reality it'd probably be constant frustration over not having enough space, and worrying about how I was supposed to apply to 100 different preschools back when I got pregnant, and never being able to let the kids play outside on their own, and never ever having enough money for anything. It'd be dealing with the super who never fixed anything on time, and complaining about $14 sandwiches, and worrying about how the kids were breathing in tons of pollution every day of their lives. It'd be dealing with cockroaches and rats. I'd have dreams about cockroaches riding through our apartment on the backs of rats, like little prehistoric cowboys.
It probably wouldn't be the right place for us as a family. But oh, the fantasy...
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