Life in New York requires a tax account, a psychologist or psychiatrist if one requires medication, and boundless patience.
When I relocated to the East Coast several years, I experienced sticker shock when shopping for food or clothes, and especially paying the Life in New York requires a tax account, a psychologist or psrent for a less than perfect apartment.
I live uptown Manhattan, at the end of Central Park West, near St. John's The Divine Cathedral, and Columbia University's main campus. I'm fortunate, I think, that my monthly expenses are lower than friends in other neighborhoods and boroughs.
My building is weird; not at all what I'm accustomed from having lived in Texas. I miss having a front and back yard. I miss family BB-Q's and parties, complete with boisterous poker games, screaming babies, and sleepy relatives after they've eaten too much sweet potato pie or peach cobbler.
My building is a year-round brick oven that seems to be falling apart from the center outward. Each floor has its own set of characters, personalities, and gossip. One apartment in particular reeks of something: soiled furniture, clothes, or perhaps a rotted corpse. Often times I've thought about pouring Lysol or Clorox Bleach at the base of the door to decrease the escaping stench. I think that would be rude. Instead, I might leave a few plants and flowers at the door. The flora would contrast the thick yellow and brown paint in the hallway and cut the scent from that apartment.
I think anything would be an improvement over the current state of my building. My main concern is that I'll have moved out before the building buckles and collapes.