As we mark the fifteenth anniversary of a show I grew to love over the years, it seems fitting that I contemplate my own fixation with New York and its magic.
I have been a New Yorker my entire life, even though I’ll cop to having grown up on Long Island, which is its own sad little niche if ever there was one. My heart, however, rests squarely in the city and not really in my own uninteresting suburban hometown. Sex and The City is to me the quintessential, “I’m coming to New York to lead a glamorous life full of fabulous shoes and marvelous success and romance” story, one which wooed more than a few of the girls I knew. Suffice it to say I have heard more than one SATC ringtone in class during my years in college (I prefer to embarrass myself in class courtesy of my TARDIS ringtone, judge me however you please).
As a New Yorker who is as much enamored with the bustle of Manhattan as with writing(and, to be perfectly honest, shoes. I’ve endlessly contemplated the various contraptions to organize my shoes in beautiful shelves of materialistic giddiness), I find myself in an odd predicament. I have started contemplated leaving New York.
This is not to say I never entertained fantasies of moving to London and basking in my own Anglophilia and drinking as much tea as my body will allow. My tea-drinking is an issue for another post. Yet suddenly I find myself seriously considering the distinct possibility of working and living elsewhere. Namely, the UAE.
Hence, SATC2. Except I hardly one to make a stereotypical mockery of both Arab and American cultures. Not because I am myself cultivated in both cultures, but because I am a reasonable individual. If you haven’t seen Sex and The City 2, good for you. Seriously. I didn’t make it through, quite honestly. While a quick scan of IMDB could just as easily tell you, the film sees our favorite foursome jet off to Abu Dhabi and, as any cloying movie synopsis would have it, “hijinks ensue!” Except no hijinks for me. Well, maybe that’s not an accurate statement, considering my personal history. Suffice it to say, Arab society and I have a strange and complicated relationship. Just ask my neighbor in Cairo(I don’t live in Cairo, but I visit frequently enough to cause trouble, apparently).
I am as yet unsure about whether I will even end up in the UAE, but the possibility has me thinking, as is always the case for me. What happens when you stir of the background and location upon which so much of my essence is based upon? Presumably, not much, aside from my complaints about a lack of good pizza and missing Washington Square Park and the museums. The more interesting question is arguably, what would happen if I were to live in the Middle East, after years of insisting I would hardly consider the possibility. What with my questionable wardrobe and liberal politics and all. There are always cities like Dubai and Beirut(let me make clear that I know full well Beirut is in Lebanon and not the UAE) where I would likely have a pretty reasonable adjustment. Yet for someone whose own self-identification is murky at best, it’s a difficult idea to confront.
If it seems a good ida, however, I will consider regaling the Internet with tales of said “hijinks.” Stay tuned.