A little farther east

Since my previous pronouncement of my favorite part of the city I've unastonishingly made many visits to this pronounced area. I've twice made the mistake of visiting the West Village on the weekend, and because of this became sourly aware of the previously tolerated abundance of Marc Jacobs stores. Oh, hey, there's a Ralph Lauren, too, and they all have lines of faux-fir-vest clad girls with their male chaperones in their rolled up jeans and leather loafers waiting at the door, an occurence that could not be soothed by flourless chocolate cake because Magnolia Bakery, too, has a line, in which I clearly refuse to wait. And now the Biography Bookshop across the street from the cupcake parade is closing.

In an attempt to hate the player not the game, I will not blame this on the fancy retailers who in a capitalist society can put their stores on cobblestone streets if they want to, nor will I blame Magnolia Bakery, whose fault it's not that Carrie Bradshaw ate one of their cupcakes and sent swarms of faux-fir-vest clad Sex and the City lovers to the corner of Bleecker and West 11th. So who are the players to hate?

I watched and liked watching Sex and the City, so I cannot join the chorus of native city dwellers decrying the SATC effect, especially since I've lived here for only three months. It's not the reason I like the West Village nor why I moved to the city, nor will I ever be waiting in a high-end line to buy the patent leather mary janes for $1,500 instead of $2,000, but my deep affection for my new home makes me understand why someone would put it in the title of their show, make it a character, and aim it toward an upper-middle-class chick-lit audience. You can't tell someone how to love something, even if you think they are doing it wrong. "True love can be expressed in only Harlem dive bars and East Village hookah shops, in Chucks and plaid listening to obscure bands on your iPod and cooking vegan split-pea soup for you and your five roommates."

We pick our favorites and then begrudge them success. We don't want to share. Oprah better keep her book-club-wielding hands away from our favorite book. You die a little the minute you hear your favorite indie band played on the radio. Chace Crawford mentions your favorite coffee shop in an interview and it feels like Christmas morning and Santa forgot to stop at your house.

As with any gentrifying neighborhood, locals rightly lament the loss of a loved identity. The players call it progress, but this isn't what it is. It's just change. The closing Biography Bookshop has opened a new store under the name Bookbook a little farther east on Bleecker, a direction I've been walking more lately. It's less quaint, more grittyish, and maybe someday I'll browse the used record store and not look like a poser or a douche. But I still like the stoops on Perry Street and Magnolia's flourless chocolate cake, so I'll still be visiting, just during the week.