Jersey City， a Love Story 泽西城之恋

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开了一家酒吧，就在布鲁克林的格雷厄姆大道和大都会大道附近。我曾在这家酒吧参加一个生日派对，当时一名摄影师抓拍到了朋友假装喂我吃纸杯蛋糕的情景。几天后，这张照片连同一篇评论那家酒吧的报道出现在《村声》上，报道的标题是“大龄潮人天堂”。

我当时26岁，长着一张娃娃脸，那是我第一次被冠以“大龄”的头衔。这很有趣，当然也令我感到很不安。我并不认为自己是潮人。好吧，究竟谁又会说自己是呢？然而，现实是无可争议的，也是客观的。我的住址让我引以为豪，就在房地产中介所称的“东威廉斯堡”这个地段鼓出来的尖上。我留着孩子气的刘海，有一份出版界的工作。我吃纸杯蛋糕的滑稽样儿让人拍了个正着。

当然了，我还是个外来户。在大龄潮人天堂这类的酒吧里，聊天有两种开头：“你是干什么的？”或者“你从哪儿来？”我是从马萨诸塞州搬到纽约的，原因太典型了，根本用不着说。为了满足某种渴望。为了一显身手。为了成功。我在一个小镇里长大，那里不适合我。现在，我要证明自己属于更广阔的天地。

我家走廊对面住着一个来自新罕布什尔州的平面设计师，楼下则住着一位波多黎各妇女和一位意大利老太太。楼下的邻居住的时间更长，比起平面设计师和我这样的人，她们也许更像这个社区的主人。我和平面设计师像中产阶级的渣滓，浮在上面游荡。然而，尽管时间上有先有后，但我们这些人都是从别处移居至此的。

这就是我在布鲁克林生活并且喜欢这里的原因：因为人们选择生活在这里。当你有意想生活在某个地方的时候，你会去布鲁克林。说自己住在布鲁克林的人好像都戴着一枚徽章，上面写着“我住在这里是有原因的”，尽管有时人们并不能明确说出是什么原因。

对于经由别处而来布鲁克林的人来说，泽西城也许和克利夫兰没什么区别。我第一次到泽西城是去参加一个假日派对。泽西城古怪的公共交通和盒子一样的高楼大厦让我感到极度陌生。几个月后一个冬日的清晨，我在泽西城一个男孩的卧室里醒来，这种感觉依然没变。这个男孩和我看到的是同一片曼哈顿下城的景色，只是方向相反。

当然，他是新泽西人。像所有新泽西人才会做的那样，他非常热爱泽西城。如此忠于一个地方，那是一种什么样的感觉？即便我与布鲁克林那么合拍，也未曾觉得那里是家。

春天，我还在和他约会。那时满树繁花，咖啡馆的雨棚也展开了，泽西城在一夜之间从荒凉的无人地带变成了一座秘密花园，到处是垂柳、能买得起的褐石房屋和便宜得难以置信的香烟。这个男孩和这个地方把我迷得神魂颠倒，于是我搬出了自己挚爱的、摇摇欲坠的公寓，穿过两条河和那道将帝国州和花园州分开的无形栅栏，来到了泽西城。

那段路只有五英里，从曼哈顿坐火车只需十分钟，但是就某些重要的方面来说，那好像史诗般漫长。

泽西城并不是人们怀着雄心壮志和伟大目标从全国各地汇聚而来的地方。它只是新泽西州偏远地区的人们来的地方。这里接近纽约，几乎就是纽约，却保有新泽西的便利和舒适，这让人们喜欢。（与新英格兰人不同，新泽西人将便利和舒适看得非常之重。）但是对于所有住在布鲁克林的人来说，“搬到泽西城”就等于“搬到泽西，仅此而已”。布鲁克林人来到泽西城定居纯属偶然：首先，他们勉强接受这个地方；然后，他们安顿下来。

一个朋友跟我解释他为什么宁愿住在布什维克时说：“布鲁克林是一种精神。”泽西城则不是。那里属于大陆。生活在那儿就是仅仅在那儿生活，在地球上的那一小块地方活着，离那个喜欢夸大自己在宇宙中地位的岛屿只有咫尺之遥。

按理说移居泽西城并不是一件很酷的事，这在纽约人看来永远也不可能莫名其妙地变成很酷的事。而我却这么做了。每晚去不同的酒吧似乎已经不是我生活中必不可少的一部分。似乎是时候学着量入为出了。如果这就是大龄所引发的改变，那《村声》说的没错。

可是，在某些黑暗的街上，我仍然会把包紧抱胸前，担心某个任性的少年会抢走我的钱包，那里面有我的纽约驾照——那可是我作为布鲁克林人身份的最后象征。

几年后，我和男友经历了一段坎坷时光，后来我离开了他，搬出了我们那房租低廉又充满阳光的公寓，丢下了我们所有的书和唱片，搬到了东村一个不通风的一居室公寓。有好几个月的时间，我都试图说服自己振奋起来，重新找回我搬去跟他一起住时丢掉的那种生活。没有了我的那些家当，没有了那个有点过于爱新泽西的男孩，我可以去任何地方，重新开始。洛杉矶，柏林，奥斯丁。

但是，我已失去了某些东西：那种想要离开的渴望，那种我一直试图通过隔几年在一个新地方重新开始一切来缓解的躁动，那种将住址和身份相关联的想法。

我以为我会爱上下班后走路回家，可相反，我怀念过去一天结束时走出泽西城的纽新捷运火车站时常闻见的清新的河边空气，那种觉得泽西城终于跟我只有一臂之遥的感觉。我在晚上哭泣，怀念我们的床。我在小杂货店里哭泣，怀念我们的韩国杂货店。我每天晚上去不同的餐馆，花一个小时等座位，然后悻悻地离开。

我的31岁生日马上就要到了，与此同时，我的纽约驾照也快到期了。但是，这座城市以及为了在这里找到家的感觉而付出的努力让我筋疲力尽，于是我迟迟不愿换新驾照。最终，在9月里一个周六的早晨，我踏上了纽新捷运的列车，来到了新泽西。透过窗户我看见葛洛夫大街。那里，他还住在我们的公寓里，耐心地等着我。当你知道自己来自何处，属于何处时，你才能有这种耐心。我坐在车上一路到了日志广场，然后在机动车辆管理局前排起了队。

1. Jersey City：泽西城，美国新泽西州东北部港口城市，与纽约市隔水相望。

2. Brooklyn：布鲁克林，美国纽约市人口最多的一个区

3. The Village Voice：《村声》，在纽约市免费发行的一种周刊杂志

4. hipster [?h?pst?（r）] n. 赶时髦的人，潮人

5. cringey [?kr?nd?i] adj. 感到局促不安的

6. East Williamsburg：东威廉斯堡，美国纽约市布鲁克林的一个区域，这里是艺术社群的交流中心，其快速发展的住房与商业空间吸引了众多富裕族群。

7. bangs [b??z] n. 刘海

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：满足某种欲望

11. New Hampshire：新罕布什尔，美国州名

12. Cleveland：克利夫兰，美国俄亥俄州东北部港口城市

13. high-rise：高楼大厦

14. Lower Manhattan：曼哈顿下城，是纽约市曼哈顿岛最南面的部分，这里有华尔街和世界贸易中心遗址。

15. dour [d??（r）] adj. 阴沉的；荒芜的

16. no-mans-land：无人地带

17. smitten [?sm?t?n] adj. 被迷住的；神魂颠倒的

18. pack up：整理；把……打包

19. 文中the Empire state （帝国州）是对New York State （纽约州）的昵称，the Garden state （花园州）则是对New Jersey State （新泽西州）的昵称。

20. settle for：勉强接受

21. Bushwick：布什维克，位于纽约市布鲁克林北部的一个下层中产阶级社区

22. stand to reason：合乎情理

23. entail [?n?te?l] vt. 使……必然随之而来；势必造成

24. studio [?stju?di??] n. （附设小浴室及小厨房的）一室公寓房

25. East Village：东村，纽约市曼哈顿区的一片街区

26. PATH：纽新航港局过哈德逊河捷运（Port Authority Trans-Hudson的缩写），是连结曼哈顿、泽西城及霍伯肯的一个都会大众捷运系统，简称纽新捷运。

27. DMV：机动车辆管理局（Department of Motor Vehicles的缩写），发放、更新驾照是其职能之一。文中作者来到这里打算把驾照更换为泽西城的驾照，在该城定居。