As published by Southern Living
My wardrobe had entirely too much seersucker for Gotham tastes. New York can be a hard place, especially for a Southerner.
My family has lived in the Great State of Alabama for 193 years. But every generation has some crazy Murphy aunt or cousin who moves away from the Great State to Noo-Yawk or France or someplace equally foreign. As it turned out, I became the weird cousin to head for the Big Apple.
I spent six years in New York City writing for newspapers, magazines, and anything else made of trees and ink. My mama, quite naturally, thought this a calamity.
For a time, I shared her outlook on the city. There were no grits in New York. There were no good barbecue shacks. New Yorkers have yet to make the discovery that both sweet and unsweetened iced tea can be served, in a glass, at a restaurant. I saw thousands of people on my way to work every morning, but nobody said, “Hey!” I’d come home at night never having seen a tree or a blade of grass. And my wardrobe had entirely too much seersucker for Gotham tastes.
I grew to love it, though. City time is like dog years: A year in New York equals 7 in Alabama. So when I moved home last April, I had some reentry problems after spending 42 years as a New Yorker. All my black New York clothing had to be discarded. Driving home from the Empire State, I pulled in a rest stop in South Carolina and overheard an old lady ask her friend, “Since when do the Amish drive Cadillacs?” Driving is a big change. Manhattanites use their horns like breathing—it is a natural and constant function, vital to sustaining life. In Birmingham, a horn is a device used as a sort of automotive wave, often blown to get a friend out of his house. My city friends are amazed that in rural areas, one is supposed to raise a two-fingered salute to all passing cars and people. Anything less is rude.
Casual conversation here can be a problem too. For one, it’s tough to keep all those ugly swear words out. My mother is still in shock about how I asked my sister to pass the peas at Christmas dinner. Complete strangers know I’ve been away. At a Hardee’s outside of Atlanta, a fellow in a CAT hat looked over and said, “Hey, how you?” “You talkin’ to me?” I asked. Oops. Wrong line. “Sorry,” I said, “I meant to say I’m fine. You havin’ the big biscuit?” Even money is different. My three-bedroom Birmingham house costs less than my 400-square-foot, 5th-floor walk-up, New York apartment. I took a friend out for lunch the other day, and our entire bill with appetizers, dessert, and tip, came to $8.75. I wanted to yell, “Everybody! It’s on me!” The South can do that to you.
There are some things I miss about New York. I miss being asked to say something again because it sounded funny with my accent. I miss being perceived as the most polite person alive. Okay, I admit it. I miss a really good lox bagel.
When I think about it though, a chewy, fishy roll with a hole in it is a small price to pay for being home.
Morgan Murphy joined Southern Living last April as Travel Editor.