This week marked the one-year anniversary of my arrival into the United States and New York City. It’s the first place I’ve lived for a year without getting itchy feet to be somewhere else since I left home for University. It seems Sinatra trumps the Allman Brothers after all.

New York really is the city of dreams. There’s a reason the top-voted comment on the YouTube video for Sinatra’s classic is

My dream is to go to New York.

I’m pretty sure if that guy had had the foresight to put up a Paypal link alongside his comment, that the Internet would have had a whip-around and gotten him a plane ticket. It’s a hell of a town.

I grew up in Cardiff and, however much I loved it, you can’t go home again. University in Birmingham was a riot, with stories and friendships that will last a lifetime, but it was the combination of the people I was with and our shared naïveté and sense of wonder that made the place, not the streets of dull concrete and vomit cushioned between endless motorways. You can’t go home again.

I lived in Reading for one glorious year — working at Microsoft with no real responsibilities and a large expenses account somewhat explains the enjoyment there, but I also really came to love the (relatively) small-town feel and sense of community. Eventually though, what took me away from Reading was the sense of sameness: there’s some wonderful things to do there, but those things change rarely and novelty is scarce. Or maybe I’m just spoiled by bigger cities; my year in London perhaps.

It took a while to make any friends in London beyond those I grew up with in Cardiff or knew from work. It’s not such an open city and people tend to stick to their pre-existing cliques. There’s a lot to do there, but it’s so much effort to actually get there and do it, and people are trying so hard to have a good time (weather, Tube, money and schedule-dependent) that they often forget to have a good time. I’d never want to live there again.

New York though? In New York I feel free. Everything changes but the core remains the same. My social life now is nothing like it was six months ago, but the people I’ve met are still there and game for new adventures, and those I’m just meeting are still welcoming me with open arms and showing me new, cool things. Part of the excitement is that the city does, in actuality, change regularly, but there’s also the fact that even those who’ve lived here for years openly admit they’ve barely scratched the surface of what New York has to offer. There’s always a group of interesting people of a type unknown yet to meet, always a new activity, area or type of place (and I’m not just talking about a new bar with a novel beer) to visit and find.

It’s not just a transatlantic thing, I’m pretty sure of that. It’s not that Americans are a more wonderful people (or less). It’s not that I prefer the American culture and ethos. Because, I have no idea about any of those things; I haven’t experienced them. New York is a microcosm unto itself, partly a blend of hundreds of different cultures and communities but mostly its own, wonderful, living and breathing self-creation.

You can’t go home again. But in New York, you can always feel at home whatever changes come your way.

I♥NY

Xx

It is not an issue restricted to the USA that hyper-realistic concepts of beauty are held up as the ideal towards which people should strive. The convention long predates the country itself, with evidence of foot-binding found as far back as 10th century China and neck-stretching described by Marco Polo circa 1300.

However, in America, moreso than anywhere else, we are assaulted daily with countless Photoshopped and otherwise-altered images that present near-literally impossible aesthetics.

Scary and somewhat depressing though this is, it’s something I’m very familiar with and desensitised to. Nevertheless, the USA has still managed to shock and upset me with the levels to which they will attempt to reach these ‘ideals’; not just as consenting (if ill-guided) adults, but for their children. Let me give an example.

Whilst I can’t assess how widespread the phrase is, I’ve always heard the phrase ‘American teeth’ (or ‘Hollywood teeth’) to describe that pearly white, straight-toothed smile that pervades cheesy television chat shows or ‘no-win, no-fee’ solicitors’ adverts in the UK…and nearly anything we watch that was imported from the states. What I hadn’t realised, was that in middle-class America (n.b. whereas Brits often strive to be seen as working-class, Americans strive to be seen as middle-class) this is the norm, rather than the exception. Regular visits to an orthodontist don’t indicate a rare and debilitating condition, but rather the latest progress in transforming children into homogeneous picture-perfect magazine-cover clones.

This discussion thread on The Guardian’s website admirably shows points of view from both sides of the Atlantic, and I’ve pulled out a couple of the quotes that scare me below:

From a French expat living in America:

The American standards are WAY higher; most of my employees have flawless WHITE teeth [and] I had my teeth redone to match my social environment ($30,000)

From an American (Kentucky):

But it’s true that in America if you don’t have nice teeth you get frowned upon. And being that my teeth are not straight that seems to be the first thing that people notice about you, they figure if you don’t look picture perfect then your not worth their time. [sic]

I’m still at the stage where I don’t care – as far as I’m inclined to believe, my teeth are perfectly fine – but I’ve met plenty of people here for whom my smile would be a major issue. Here’s hoping I don’t acclimatise to that mindset. Scarier though, is the (remote) possibility that I could have children here, and be forced to either compromise my morals about mechanically cosmetically altering my child to conform to ideals of beauty, or risk them being bullied and unhappy as they grow up here:

An American woman I know whose parents resisted this fashion was bullied at school for her “bad” teeth, although she doesn’t have a filling in her head at the age of 45

Teeth aren’t the only issue here, and whilst I have issues with other commonplace practices, the arguments against those can be less clear-cut. Male circumcision, for example, is nearly standard in the USA, whereas it is rare other than for religious reasons elsewhere, and medical authorities’ advice varies from ‘no good reason’ to actively calling on medical practitioners to intervene where circumcision is requested (female genital mutilation, on the other hand, is illegal in a large number of countries). Despite this, medical research papers routinely present findings showing health benefits of circumcision, and whilst these have yet to convince many government boards, the WHO currently recommends male circumcision countries where there is a very high risk of HIV, pending further evidence.

If, after reading the above, you are inclined to believe that the Americans treat their children just like the rest of us, albeit being a little more concerned about the brightness of their smile, take a moment to note the phenomenon of child beauty pageants, found all over the USA and presented for your viewing pleasure on such shows as Toddlers & Tiaras, Little Beauties and Little Miss Perfect. Children as young as 3 or 4 are smothered with makeup, subjected to cosmetic surgery and dressed in revealing clothes as they develop attitudes to match their appearance. There are now efforts to bring these to other countries, with the Australians in particular being particularly vocal in petitioning against this spread.

Personally, I’d rather find a nice Welsh girl. She might not have straight teeth or silicone breasts, but at least she’ll know how to cwtch, watch rygbi and shout obscenities at the English.

Xx

New York might be the greatest city in the world, but it can’t hold a candle to the greatest country in the world. It’s hard to get homesick for Wales living in a place with constant novelty and precious little time to sleep, but since the rygbi world cup has started, that’s really started to kick in.

In lieu of a traditional Welsh Brains pub (Manhattan doesn’t have everything) I’ve been spending my weekends at The Australian with various foreigners and whichever Americans I’m explaining to sport to that day. However, when Wales are playing and the red shirts roll in, that’s when the real fun starts.

Nothing makes me more nostalgic for Cardiff than hearing the dulcet tones of a valleys accent shouting profanities at a bunch of lads named Geraint, Alun Wyn or Rhys, adding “is it” to every other sentence and responding with “that’s lovely” by default. And, whilst it’s wonderful watching the boys win with a few of the Cymry by my side, it doesn’t quite compare to watching the last Grand Slam match on a giant screen in Cardiff City centre or seeing sweet revenge against the Irish from the stands of the Millennium Stadium.

Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau was the first anthem to be sung before a sporting event, as the Welsh fans spontaneously burst into song after seeing New Zealand’s infamous Haka before the Game of the Century, 1905, where Wales were crowned the unofficial champions of the world. I can’t think of any better feeling than being surrounded by thousands upon thousands of my countrymen, watching the Welsh team running out and singing that again.

Beating Ireland tonight, however, might be a close enough approximation.

Xx

On the 21^th of August, 2011, I was sitting at home watching a young couple at the bus stop outside my balcony alternately kissing, and then standing next to one another looking awkward; hugging, and then folding their arms; sitting together, and then moving apart. So, I started tweeting about it.

A month later, I received a message from an artist asking if he could use one of my tweets about the fleeting moment of sweet awkwardness in an art exhibition he’s putting on in New York, displaying a hundred tweets printed onto magnetic card and stuck up around 14^th street. It’s part of the art in odd places festival, and surprisingly is one of the least bizarre exhibitions in the lineup.

I’d like to take a moment to note that there are now over two billions tweets sent every month. Location search aside, I can’t imagine what keyword search would have narrowed down the field so much that my tweet stood out. Unless the artist was a Hollies fan, perhaps.

The artist in question, Alban Low, is based in the UK, and was even so kind as to post me a copy of my tweet over the Atlantic, which now sits on my fridge to confuse and bemuse house-guests.

This means I’m now a published author, a recorded musician and an exhibited artist. A true renaissance man. Ish.

Xx