I always argue that I live in the West Village, though my address teeters terribly close to the streets that fill with drunken girls in stilettos and inappropriately and unseasonably short bejeweled bandage dresses and the men who love them on the weekends. Then one day, I noticed the banner (conveniently sponsored by my building’s management company) affixed to the lamppost on my corner welcoming all to the trendy Meatpacking District. “Live Well!” it decrees. If you mean paying six dollars for a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips at the corner deli and navigating through fanny pack clad Midwestern tourists while avoiding the stench of street carts, then, why yes, you can live very well in this neighborhood.
…And then I received a packet in my mailbox. It was officially welcoming me to the Meatpacking District complete with a Hookup Card. I can’t. And yet, I do. When I first came to New York before my senior year of college, the Meatpacking District was exactly what its name suggests. There was meat on the ground and it smelled and it was not yet infiltrated with Lulu Lemon and the stroller pushing mothers who wear it. It was gritty and scary and fun. It was the old New York. But as much as I complain about it, I love where I live… so long as I always walk south when exiting my building, unless heading to Sephora or Soho House. I’m glad I’ve lived here long enough to know the difference and to be able to bitch about it.
Holla if ya hear me.
Photo Credit: Michael Stiegler