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.
So when people ask what there is to do on Staten Island, I tell them -- nothing. But I don’t mean it as an insult anymore. It’s a place where you can step back from the city’s sad, anxious lust for the CoolNewSomething, take a minute, and just breathe life in.