New Yorkers are so often defined by their neighborhoods, even though those 'hoods themselves often change definition by the week, thanks to rampant gentrification, blah, blah, blah... man, that bodega where everyone got knifed had so much charm... blah, blah, blah, Mars Bar, etc.
No matter what ol’ SJP and her real estate agent want you to think, none of them are perfect. So in which specific ways does your 'hood suck? We dove in to find out
Little Italy: Do you want a 12-course seafood dinner for $13.99 (20% gratuity included, bad table wine included, noise from the never-ending construction on Grand St included)? No? What about a t-shirt that says “Cool Story, Bro”? No? Maybe seven cell phones, none of which work? No?! What exactly are you doing here?
Nolita: Your hood is named for its Northerly proximity to Little Italy, but it’s full of normal-sized Australians instead of little Austrians. The fact that Cafe Gitane isn’t packed with tiny blonde people named Amadeus & Greta is unacceptable bullsh*t, and would upset you more if you weren’t reading this on your phone from the statue garden on Elizabeth St, where it’s impossible to get upset about anything
Williamsburg: And now, a game of Gentrification Roulette: Williamsburg Edition! Spin the wheel (reclaimed from Who-Really-Cares Farm in upstate New York, of course) and find out what the post-hipster apocalypse holds in store for your hood -- more glossy high-rises, or an Eisenhower-esque return to abnormalcy? More importantly, do you know how many more seasons of Girls are left
Park Slope: The whole “it’s only for families” thing is kind of exaggera--HOLY HELL YOU CAN’T EVEN HEAR THE MUSIC AT THIS BAR OVER THE SOUND OF CHILDREN CRYING! BUT… IT’S LIKE MIDNIGHT?! YOUR FOOT JUST GOT RUN OVER BY THREE DIFFERENT MACLAREN STROLLERS! FLEEEEEEEEE!
Bushwick: For the entire duration of your residency, you will ponder whether your ragged loftmate is Banksy, Hanksy, or just a vagrant named Steve who traffics Carhartt beanies and always has a U-lock wedged in his waistband even though his fixie’s handlebars are so impossibly narrow that no one would steal 'em anyway. You will move out not knowing, but years from now you’ll definitely see Steve unmasked for something on the news. It’s inevitable. Poor Steve.