True Life: I'm a Post-Grad
Alison Newcomer
Issue date: 3/5/10 Section: True Story
I had seven days to go from zero to sixty.
With those seven days, three sets of tears, fifteen apartments, five floors, twenty-seven strangers and three friends-I went from Minneapolis to Manhattan, and from the life of a bored college grad living with her parents to a city girl, making ends meet independently for the first time in my life.
Like most of my recently graduated peers, I had spent the summer on my parent's couch looking at my brand new diploma and wondering what on earth I was going to do next. Then the call came from New York City telling me that I had landed my dream job, and asking if I could be ready to start next Monday. One week. Ecstatic doesn't begin to cover it. Neither does terrified.
The day I left, both my parents and I cried. I cried because I knew I was leaving the guarantee of a home-cooked meal every night, and they cried at the thought of no longer having to do my laundry.
I glanced in my rearview mirror for a sentimental one-last-time movie moment, and saw them high-fiving.
What do I do now?
In a city where I didn't know a soul, Craigslist became my best friend. I scoured the site everyday looking for apartment deals and potential roommates. I had an aunt and uncle in Connecticut who were kind enough to let me crash on their couch during the hunt and while their place was cozy, I persisted in my search to find roommates who hadn't been alive during the Kennedy administration.
The first apartment I went to see involved trekking through the kitchen of a Chinese restaurant to get to the stairs. Then there were the places with the shower in the kitchen, or the closet being offered as a "2nd bedroom" for rent, and even illegal sixth floors where the landlord told me, "I will pay your utilities, if you promise to hide when the city inspector comes."
But finally, I found it. A block from Central Park, my search finally ended with a place affordable on a non-profit budget.
Never mind that the toilet and shower are in the hallway, and I share them both with my 35 year-old male neighbor who blasts Miley Cyrus' "Party in the USA" all night long. Never mind that my first thought upon entering was "Where is the rest of it?" And never mind that it's on the fifth floor of a fifth floor walk-up.
At least I won't have to spend money on a gym membership.
It seems exceedingly obvious to say that Manhattan and Minneapolis are slightly different cities. I was born and raised right in the middle of our great country, surrounded by farmland and overwhelmingly nice people. When you look up in Minnesota, you see nothing but sky, with occasional glimpses of clouds. When you look up in New York, you see buildings, with sporadic glimpses of sky.
When I was little, I yearned for big city life the way I am now nostalgic for cornfields and cows. New York City was a place I had visited to see great shows and walk through Central Park, but I had never lived anywhere but my parents' houses and college dorms, both of which involved a pretty high level of support and someone else to do the cooking.
I spent the first two weeks in New York sitting on the floor of my apartment, watching movies on my laptop because I had no furniture and no friends. Every time I turned the oven on, an awful odor came out from the vents, so I was surviving on lettuce and pita bread. My dad called every day to make sure that I was still alive, because in his words, "No one would know if you disappeared."
Despite the fact that I was sleeping on an air mattress, I absolutely adored my job-my college life was the last thing on my mind. I felt grown up, like a young professional instead of just a post-grad. And what do grown-ups do? They buy groceries.
I went to the grocery store by my apartment after work on a Friday night. I didn't have any friends at the time, so it seemed like an appropriate time to run errands. The store was packed. People were pushy and stepping on my toes, slamming into my cart and telling me to get out of the way as I debated bread brands. The people weren't overtly rude, just trying to get their things as quickly as possible, but my head started spinning.
At home in Minnesota, grocery store shoppers would never behave this way. At home, they would help me choose. At home, they would apologize for bumping into me and at home, they would go out of their way to avoid stepping on my toe. The next thing I know, I have a loaf of bread in my hand and I am crying hysterically.
Train wreck, aisle 6.
I called a friend of a friend the weekend of Halloween, knowing that if I didn't get out and enjoy the city like the young professional that I was, I would start inviting the trick-or-treaters into my apartment for conversation and would most likely end up on the news. I had never met the girl I called, but my friend had told her about my personal pity party and she invited me to her apartment to go out for Halloween.
It was a strange connection, yet when I arrived at her door she welcomed me with a hug and introduced me to a group of people that were just as warm. We toured the city that night, stopping at bars and restaurants, eating pizza and laughing about ridiculous costumes. I felt like I was with close friends that I just hadn't seen in awhile. In a city of eight million people, I had found three solid friends.
I was feeling particularly great one fall afternoon. I had just battled the subway crowds, I had my headphones in and I even knew where I was going. Keys to my tiny studio apartment jingled in my pocket and when I came to a stoplight and saw the crowds of sneakered tourists waiting for the walk sign, I thought to myself, I know what I'm doing, I live here. I am urbane and sophisticated and I might even be mistaken for a New Yorker. And New Yorkers do not wait for the walk sign. Without missing a beat, I stepped into the street to cross through traffic, only to be mowed down by a delivery boy on a bike from the Chirping Chicken restaurant down the road. After that, I went three blocks out of my way to avoid walking beside the sneakered tourists who had seen poultry put me in my place.
I love this city. But it is situations like the chicken incident that serve to remind me where I'm really from. I don't want to lose what makes me, me, and being a Mid-Western girl with a "you betcha" accent and a good set of manners is a huge part of that.
So even though it might give me away as a New York transplant, I've decided that I will continue to talk to cab drivers and strangers on the subway, and I will ask the old man with groceries if he needs help.
Each day brings a brand new set of challenges, and a phone call making sure I'm alive. And while some days I feel like the city has beat me at my own game, I've found that in New York it's not necessarily a question of whether or not the chicken can cross the road, it's whether the post grad can avoid being run over by it.
I'm pretty sure I'm going to make it to the other side. But I think I'll wait for the light.
With those seven days, three sets of tears, fifteen apartments, five floors, twenty-seven strangers and three friends-I went from Minneapolis to Manhattan, and from the life of a bored college grad living with her parents to a city girl, making ends meet independently for the first time in my life.
Like most of my recently graduated peers, I had spent the summer on my parent's couch looking at my brand new diploma and wondering what on earth I was going to do next. Then the call came from New York City telling me that I had landed my dream job, and asking if I could be ready to start next Monday. One week. Ecstatic doesn't begin to cover it. Neither does terrified.
The day I left, both my parents and I cried. I cried because I knew I was leaving the guarantee of a home-cooked meal every night, and they cried at the thought of no longer having to do my laundry.
I glanced in my rearview mirror for a sentimental one-last-time movie moment, and saw them high-fiving.
What do I do now?
In a city where I didn't know a soul, Craigslist became my best friend. I scoured the site everyday looking for apartment deals and potential roommates. I had an aunt and uncle in Connecticut who were kind enough to let me crash on their couch during the hunt and while their place was cozy, I persisted in my search to find roommates who hadn't been alive during the Kennedy administration.
The first apartment I went to see involved trekking through the kitchen of a Chinese restaurant to get to the stairs. Then there were the places with the shower in the kitchen, or the closet being offered as a "2nd bedroom" for rent, and even illegal sixth floors where the landlord told me, "I will pay your utilities, if you promise to hide when the city inspector comes."
But finally, I found it. A block from Central Park, my search finally ended with a place affordable on a non-profit budget.
 Media Credit: Ashley Van Sipma "Where is the rest of it?" |
At least I won't have to spend money on a gym membership.
It seems exceedingly obvious to say that Manhattan and Minneapolis are slightly different cities. I was born and raised right in the middle of our great country, surrounded by farmland and overwhelmingly nice people. When you look up in Minnesota, you see nothing but sky, with occasional glimpses of clouds. When you look up in New York, you see buildings, with sporadic glimpses of sky.
When I was little, I yearned for big city life the way I am now nostalgic for cornfields and cows. New York City was a place I had visited to see great shows and walk through Central Park, but I had never lived anywhere but my parents' houses and college dorms, both of which involved a pretty high level of support and someone else to do the cooking.
I spent the first two weeks in New York sitting on the floor of my apartment, watching movies on my laptop because I had no furniture and no friends. Every time I turned the oven on, an awful odor came out from the vents, so I was surviving on lettuce and pita bread. My dad called every day to make sure that I was still alive, because in his words, "No one would know if you disappeared."
Despite the fact that I was sleeping on an air mattress, I absolutely adored my job-my college life was the last thing on my mind. I felt grown up, like a young professional instead of just a post-grad. And what do grown-ups do? They buy groceries.
I went to the grocery store by my apartment after work on a Friday night. I didn't have any friends at the time, so it seemed like an appropriate time to run errands. The store was packed. People were pushy and stepping on my toes, slamming into my cart and telling me to get out of the way as I debated bread brands. The people weren't overtly rude, just trying to get their things as quickly as possible, but my head started spinning.
At home in Minnesota, grocery store shoppers would never behave this way. At home, they would help me choose. At home, they would apologize for bumping into me and at home, they would go out of their way to avoid stepping on my toe. The next thing I know, I have a loaf of bread in my hand and I am crying hysterically.
Train wreck, aisle 6.
I called a friend of a friend the weekend of Halloween, knowing that if I didn't get out and enjoy the city like the young professional that I was, I would start inviting the trick-or-treaters into my apartment for conversation and would most likely end up on the news. I had never met the girl I called, but my friend had told her about my personal pity party and she invited me to her apartment to go out for Halloween.
 Media Credit: Ashley Van Sipma Minneapolis to Manhattan |
I was feeling particularly great one fall afternoon. I had just battled the subway crowds, I had my headphones in and I even knew where I was going. Keys to my tiny studio apartment jingled in my pocket and when I came to a stoplight and saw the crowds of sneakered tourists waiting for the walk sign, I thought to myself, I know what I'm doing, I live here. I am urbane and sophisticated and I might even be mistaken for a New Yorker. And New Yorkers do not wait for the walk sign. Without missing a beat, I stepped into the street to cross through traffic, only to be mowed down by a delivery boy on a bike from the Chirping Chicken restaurant down the road. After that, I went three blocks out of my way to avoid walking beside the sneakered tourists who had seen poultry put me in my place.
I love this city. But it is situations like the chicken incident that serve to remind me where I'm really from. I don't want to lose what makes me, me, and being a Mid-Western girl with a "you betcha" accent and a good set of manners is a huge part of that.
So even though it might give me away as a New York transplant, I've decided that I will continue to talk to cab drivers and strangers on the subway, and I will ask the old man with groceries if he needs help.
Each day brings a brand new set of challenges, and a phone call making sure I'm alive. And while some days I feel like the city has beat me at my own game, I've found that in New York it's not necessarily a question of whether or not the chicken can cross the road, it's whether the post grad can avoid being run over by it.
I'm pretty sure I'm going to make it to the other side. But I think I'll wait for the light.
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