Rock Bottom Bagel

Breakups are never easy. In my nearly 16 years of dating men of varied professions, religions and cultures, I'm still on the fence as to the most effective and least painful way to put the brakes on a relationship. You've got the 'rip-it-off like a band-aid' approach, the 'it's not you I'm just going through a tough time' approach and the 'I'm moving back to Indiana' bald-face lie approach.

They're all brutal and they're all a bit nauseating.

So I'll try something new—something I've perhaps picked up in the year and a half since moving to Harlem. It's direct. It's to the point. It's not always pleasant. So here's me letting fly—You ready?

I'm subletting my place in Harlem. I've left the neighborhood. I need a break.

It's no secret that I move around a lot and in a previous post I likened my relationship with Harlem to a love affair; noting that when it's good I'm high as a kite, but when it's bad I can’t breathe. But it was an event that actually knocked the wind out of me that was the straw that broke my bagel's back.

I can take a groping in Harlem but I've got no patience for a hitting in Harlem. It was a beautiful, sunny November afternoon and I was walking along East 125th Street when a man, obviously drunk and demanding 12-cents from passerby, approached me.

"Dude, sorry, I don't have 12 cents," I said to him trying to steer clear. But as I passed to the right of him, he took a large bag filled with recyclable cans and whacked me on my back so hard that I actually fell over.

I was dazed and in shock and mostly just angry. Really, really angry.

And my anger from that day began seeping into my every experience in Harlem. I was already having a difficult time letting the small annoyances roll off me—the cursing on the streets, the trash on the sidewalks and the lack of fresh bagel—had become bigger than the neighborhood itself.

And while I recognize that a good bagel whacking can perhaps happen anywhere in the city, this particular whack occurred just three blocks from my apartment. Afterwards, I could no longer see the forest from the trees. Harlem’s incredible history, architecture and residents all remained, but my day-to-day existence in the neighborhood had become increasingly stressful and I was no longer finding pleasure in my surroundings.

In truth, I’ve been agonizing for months over the question of whether Harlem is the right place for me. So I’m taking a break. My furniture is in Harlem. My bagel is south of Houston Street. And my blog? Well, we’ll see. Like any relationship, it can veer off track for a bit. For now, as news of a bagel dearth spreads in our fair city, I plan to continue my quest for the dough with a hole and see where the search takes me. Keep me posted and I promise to do the same.