Jessanne+Collins

In 2005， a new bar opened around the corner from my apartment， near Graham Avenue and Metropolitan in Brooklyn2）. I was there for a birthday party when a photographer snapped a photo of a friend faux-feeding me a cupcake. A few days later， the picture appeared alongside a review of the bar in The Village Voice3）. The headline called it “Aging Hipster4） Heaven.”

I was a baby-faced 26， and this was the first time Id been called an “aging” anything. It was funny， of course， in a terribly cringey5） way. I didnt identify as a hipster because， well， who on earth does？ But here are the hard， objective facts. I was proud of my address， on the swelling lip of the neighborhood real estate agents were calling “East Williamsburg6）.” I had baby bangs7） and a publishing job. And I had been caught red-handed8） doing something ironic with a cupcake.

Of course， I was also a transplant9）. Conversations at bars like Aging Hipster Heaven began one of two ways： “What do you do？” or “Where are you from？” Id moved to New York from Massachusetts for reasons so typical theyre hardly necessary to name. To scratch an itch10）. To spread my wings. To make it. Id grown up in a tiny town where I didnt fit in， and now I was trying to prove that I belonged somewhere huge.

I lived across the hall from a graphic designer from New Hampshire11） and above a Puerto Rican woman and an ancient Italian lady. My downstairs neighbors had been there longer， and perhaps had more claim to the neighborhood than people like the designer and me， drifting on top like middle-class sediment. But all of us had， at one time or another， arrived from someplace else.

This is why I lived in Brooklyn， and why I loved it there： because people chose it. It was where you went when you wanted to live somewhere deliberately. To say you lived there was to wear a badge that said “Im here for a reason，” even if you couldnt say what， exactly， that reason was.

To someone from Brooklyn by way of elsewhere， Jersey City might as well be Cleveland12）. The first time I ventured there， for a holiday party， it felt utterly foreign， with its bizarre public transit and boxy high-rises13）. It still felt that way when I woke up there on a wintry morning a few months later， in the bedroom of a boy who had the same view of Lower Manhattan14） that I had， only in reverse.

He was， of course， from New Jersey. And as only people who are of New Jersey do， he loved it， fiercely. What was it like to have such loyalty to a place？ Even Brooklyn， where I fit in so well， didnt feel like home.

We were still dating in the spring， when the trees bloomed and the cafes unfurled their awnings， and suddenly Jersey City transformed from a dour15） no-mans-land16） into a secret garden full of weeping willows， affordable brownstones and impossibly cheap cigarettes. I was so smitten17）， with the boy and the place， that I packed up18） my beloved， crumbling apartment and moved across two rivers and the invisible fence that divides the Empire and Garden states19）.

It was a move of five miles， a 10-minute train ride from Manhattan， but in the ways that mattered it was epic.

Jersey City is not a place that people come to from distant parts of the country with great intention and purpose. It is a place that people come to from distant parts of New Jersey. They like the proximity to the city， the almost New Yorkness， combined with the convenience and comfort of still being in New Jersey. （People from New Jersey， unlike people from New England， highly prioritize convenience and comfort.） But to anyone who lives in Brooklyn， “moving to Jersey City” is one and the same with “moving to Jersey， period.” Brooklyners end up there purely by accident： first， they settle for20） it， and then they settle down.

“Brooklyn is an ethos，” said one of my friends， explaining why hed rather live in Bushwick21）. Jersey City is not. Its the mainland. Living there is just living there， in that spot on the planet， a short trip from an island that tends to overestimate its place in the universe.

It stands to reason22） that moving to Jersey is the one not-cool thing that will never inexplicably become cool among New Yorkers. And I had done it. It no longer seemed necessary to have a different bar to go to every night of the week. It seemed like it was time to learn to live within my means. If this is what aging entails23）， the Village Voice was right.

And yet. On certain dark streets， I still found myself clutching my bag to my chest， fearful that some wayward teenager would snatch my wallet， and with it my New York drivers license—the last tether to my Brooklyn identity.

After a few years， my boyfriend and I went through a rough patch and I left him and our dirt-cheap， sun-filled apartment and all our books and records and moved into a stuffy studio24） in the East Village25）. For months， I tried to talk myself into being excited to resume the life Id left off when I moved in with him. Without my stuff， without that guy who loved New Jersey a little too much， I could go anywhere； start over. Los Angeles， Berlin， Austin.

But Id lost something. The itch to leave， the restlessness Id been trying to soothe by starting over every few years somewhere new， the notion that who I was had anything to do with my address.

I thought I would love walking home from work， but instead I missed that breath of fresh river air I used to catch coming out of the PATH26） station in Jersey City at the end of the day， the sense that the city was， at last， at arms length. I cried at night， missing our bed. I cried in a bodega， missing our Korean grocer. I went to a different restaurant every night， and waited an hour for a table， and left unsatisfied.

My 31st birthday was coming， and with it， the expiration date on my New York drivers license. But， exhausted by the city and the effort it took to feel at home there， I kept putting off getting a new one. Finally， one Saturday morning in September， I got on the PATH train and rode it into New Jersey， out past Grove Street， where he still had our apartment， and was waiting for me with the patience you possess when you know where youre from and where you belong. I stayed on the train all the way to Journal Square， and there I got in line at the DMV27）.

2005年，我公寓附近的街角新開了一家酒吧，就在布魯克林的格雷厄姆大道和大都會大道附近。我曾在這家酒吧參加一個生日派對，當(dāng)時一名攝影師抓拍到了朋友假裝喂我吃紙杯蛋糕的情景。幾天后，這張照片連同一篇評論那家酒吧的報道出現(xiàn)在《村聲》上，報道的標(biāo)題是“大齡潮人天堂”。

我當(dāng)時26歲，長著一張娃娃臉，那是我第一次被冠以“大齡”的頭銜。這很有趣，當(dāng)然也令我感到很不安。我并不認為自己是潮人。好吧，究竟誰又會說自己是呢？然而，現(xiàn)實是無可爭議的，也是客觀的。我的住址讓我引以為豪，就在房地產(chǎn)中介所稱的“東威廉斯堡”這個地段鼓出來的尖上。我留著孩子氣的劉海，有一份出版界的工作。我吃紙杯蛋糕的滑稽樣兒讓人拍了個正著。

當(dāng)然了，我還是個外來戶。在大齡潮人天堂這類的酒吧里，聊天有兩種開頭：“你是干什么的？”或者“你從哪兒來？”我是從馬薩諸塞州搬到紐約的，原因太典型了，根本用不著說。為了滿足某種渴望。為了一顯身手。為了成功。我在一個小鎮(zhèn)里長大，那里不適合我?，F(xiàn)在，我要證明自己屬于更廣闊的天地。

我家走廊對面住著一個來自新罕布什爾州的平面設(shè)計師，樓下則住著一位波多黎各婦女和一位意大利老太太。樓下的鄰居住的時間更長，比起平面設(shè)計師和我這樣的人，她們也許更像這個社區(qū)的主人。我和平面設(shè)計師像中產(chǎn)階級的渣滓，浮在上面游蕩。然而，盡管時間上有先有后，但我們這些人都是從別處移居至此的。

這就是我在布魯克林生活并且喜歡這里的原因：因為人們選擇生活在這里。當(dāng)你有意想生活在某個地方的時候，你會去布魯克林。說自己住在布魯克林的人好像都戴著一枚徽章，上面寫著“我住在這里是有原因的”，盡管有時人們并不能明確說出是什么原因。

對于經(jīng)由別處而來布魯克林的人來說，澤西城也許和克利夫蘭沒什么區(qū)別。我第一次到澤西城是去參加一個假日派對。澤西城古怪的公共交通和盒子一樣的高樓大廈讓我感到極度陌生。幾個月后一個冬日的清晨，我在澤西城一個男孩的臥室里醒來，這種感覺依然沒變。這個男孩和我看到的是同一片曼哈頓下城的景色，只是方向相反。

當(dāng)然，他是新澤西人。像所有新澤西人才會做的那樣，他非常熱愛澤西城。如此忠于一個地方，那是一種什么樣的感覺？即便我與布魯克林那么合拍，也未曾覺得那里是家。

春天，我還在和他約會。那時滿樹繁花，咖啡館的雨棚也展開了，澤西城在一夜之間從荒涼的無人地帶變成了一座秘密花園，到處是垂柳、能買得起的褐石房屋和便宜得難以置信的香煙。這個男孩和這個地方把我迷得神魂顛倒，于是我搬出了自己摯愛的、搖搖欲墜的公寓，穿過兩條河和那道將帝國州和花園州分開的無形柵欄，來到了澤西城。

那段路只有五英里，從曼哈頓坐火車只需十分鐘，但是就某些重要的方面來說，那好像史詩般漫長。

澤西城并不是人們懷著雄心壯志和偉大目標(biāo)從全國各地匯聚而來的地方。它只是新澤西州偏遠地區(qū)的人們來的地方。這里接近紐約，幾乎就是紐約，卻保有新澤西的便利和舒適，這讓人們喜歡。（與新英格蘭人不同，新澤西人將便利和舒適看得非常之重。）但是對于所有住在布魯克林的人來說，“搬到澤西城”就等于“搬到澤西，僅此而已”。布魯克林人來到澤西城定居純屬偶然：首先，他們勉強接受這個地方；然后，他們安頓下來。

一個朋友跟我解釋他為什么寧愿住在布什維克時說：“布魯克林是一種精神?！睗晌鞒莿t不是。那里屬于大陸。生活在那兒就是僅僅在那兒生活，在地球上的那一小塊地方活著，離那個喜歡夸大自己在宇宙中地位的島嶼只有咫尺之遙。

按理說移居澤西城并不是一件很酷的事，這在紐約人看來永遠也不可能莫名其妙地變成很酷的事。而我卻這么做了。每晚去不同的酒吧似乎已經(jīng)不是我生活中必不可少的一部分。似乎是時候?qū)W著量入為出了。如果這就是大齡所引發(fā)的改變，那《村聲》說的沒錯。

可是，在某些黑暗的街上，我仍然會把包緊抱胸前，擔(dān)心某個任性的少年會搶走我的錢包，那里面有我的紐約駕照——那可是我作為布魯克林人身份的最后象征。

幾年后，我和男友經(jīng)歷了一段坎坷時光，后來我離開了他，搬出了我們那房租低廉又充滿陽光的公寓，丟下了我們所有的書和唱片，搬到了東村一個不通風(fēng)的一居室公寓。有好幾個月的時間，我都試圖說服自己振奮起來，重新找回我搬去跟他一起住時丟掉的那種生活。沒有了我的那些家當(dāng)，沒有了那個有點過于愛新澤西的男孩，我可以去任何地方，重新開始。洛杉磯，柏林，奧斯丁。

但是，我已失去了某些東西：那種想要離開的渴望，那種我一直試圖通過隔幾年在一個新地方重新開始一切來緩解的躁動，那種將住址和身份相關(guān)聯(lián)的想法。

我以為我會愛上下班后走路回家，可相反，我懷念過去一天結(jié)束時走出澤西城的紐新捷運火車站時常聞見的清新的河邊空氣，那種覺得澤西城終于跟我只有一臂之遙的感覺。我在晚上哭泣，懷念我們的床。我在小雜貨店里哭泣，懷念我們的韓國雜貨店。我每天晚上去不同的餐館，花一個小時等座位，然后悻悻地離開。

我的31歲生日馬上就要到了，與此同時，我的紐約駕照也快到期了。但是，這座城市以及為了在這里找到家的感覺而付出的努力讓我筋疲力盡，于是我遲遲不愿換新駕照。最終，在9月里一個周六的早晨，我踏上了紐新捷運的列車，來到了新澤西。透過窗戶我看見葛洛夫大街。那里，他還住在我們的公寓里，耐心地等著我。當(dāng)你知道自己來自何處，屬于何處時，你才能有這種耐心。我坐在車上一路到了日志廣場，然后在機動車輛管理局前排起了隊。

1. Jersey City：澤西城，美國新澤西州東北部港口城市，與紐約市隔水相望。

2. Brooklyn：布魯克林，美國紐約市人口最多的一個區(qū)

3. The Village Voice：《村聲》，在紐約市免費發(fā)行的一種周刊雜志

4. hipster [?h?pst?（r）] n. 趕時髦的人，潮人

5. cringey [?kr?nd?i] adj. 感到局促不安的

6. East Williamsburg：東威廉斯堡，美國紐約市布魯克林的一個區(qū)域，這里是藝術(shù)社群的交流中心，其快速發(fā)展的住房與商業(yè)空間吸引了眾多富裕族群。

7. bangs [b??z] n. 劉海

8. red-handed [?red?h?nd?d] adj. 正在作案的

9. transplant [?tr?ns?plɑ?nt] n. 移居者

10. scratch an itch：滿足某種欲望

11. New Hampshire：新罕布什爾，美國州名

12. Cleveland：克利夫蘭，美國俄亥俄州東北部港口城市

13. high-rise：高樓大廈

14. Lower Manhattan：曼哈頓下城，是紐約市曼哈頓島最南面的部分，這里有華爾街和世界貿(mào)易中心遺址。

15. dour [d??（r）] adj. 陰沉的；荒蕪的

16. no-mans-land：無人地帶

17. smitten [?sm?t?n] adj. 被迷住的；神魂顛倒的

18. pack up：整理；把……打包

19. 文中the Empire state （帝國州）是對New York State （紐約州）的昵稱，the Garden state （花園州）則是對New Jersey State （新澤西州）的昵稱。

20. settle for：勉強接受

21. Bushwick：布什維克，位于紐約市布魯克林北部的一個下層中產(chǎn)階級社區(qū)

22. stand to reason：合乎情理

23. entail [?n?te?l] vt. 使……必然隨之而來；勢必造成

24. studio [?stju?di??] n. （附設(shè)小浴室及小廚房的）一室公寓房

25. East Village：東村，紐約市曼哈頓區(qū)的一片街區(qū)

26. PATH：紐新航港局過哈德遜河捷運（Port Authority Trans-Hudson的縮寫），是連結(jié)曼哈頓、澤西城及霍伯肯的一個都會大眾捷運系統(tǒng)，簡稱紐新捷運。

27. DMV：機動車輛管理局（Department of Motor Vehicles的縮寫），發(fā)放、更新駕照是其職能之一。文中作者來到這里打算把駕照更換為澤西城的駕照，在該城定居。