You might spend a Staten Island Saturday night at the bar. Not a bar, but the bar. The one on Forest Ave that you know all of your friends will be at. By “friends,” I mean, y'know, actual friends, not "people you’re tangentially connected to through your various social and career-climbing networks and barely actually know."
Maybe the thing I miss most about the Island is even simpler, though. You can spend a summer night in your backyard -- not a fire escape or a tiny back alley that primarily serves as a meeting spot for raucous late-night cat orgies -- but an actual, spacious lawn, where you can grill up a burger, sit back in a folding chair, plant your bare feet in the grass, and just be. No networking, no constant search for the next hot thing, no culture overload. You can just exist.