Soccer Madness!

One curious fact about life in New York is how provincial it is, despite -- or perhaps because of -- its international, comsopolitan nature. It is a truth universally acknowledged that, with so much going on here, there is nothing that can happen anywhere else in the world that could possibly matter much. That's the general operating principle. Plus, people are busy. They don't really have time to worry about what's happening in London or Paris or Peroria. Even if something was happening there which mattered; and as we know, that could not possibly be the case.

The single happy exception to this rule I have observed is the World Cup soccer tournament, now taking place in...oh, Germany somewhere. The little hipster boutique around the corner from me (where "Peace is always in fashion," as its sign explains) suddenly had a display window full of Brazilian themes. Rectangular cookies frosted with the Brazilian flag appeared in an otherwise sedate Upper East Side cafe. Wherever you go, slightly less busy than usual people are gathered around TV screens and are likely to be wearing their national colors, too, in every possible nationality imaginable.

My favorite Uzbek barbers installed two flat-screen TVs next to the mirrors, where soccer is on morning till night. A light-hearted story in The New York Times captured the scene at a tire shop the day of the Poland-Ecuador game in the Polish enclave of Greenpoint, Brooklyn, where the owner was Ecudorean, his employees mostly Latino, his customers mostly Polish. Everyone stopped changing tires and started drinking beer with eyes glued to the set. The South Koreans were going wild in Koreatown, which is near the Empire State Building, in the 30's.

My crabby neighbor, whom I suspect of being Belgian, even spoke to me; that's when I knew the city had gone crazy. It happened this way: I left the apartment at the same time he did next door, and noticed that he was carrying an enormous box. "Let me get the door for you," I said, forgetting for a moment I was no longer in the South and that polite gestures usually scare people here. I opened the door for him. Since there was another door down the hall from that one, I thought, in for a penny, in for a pound, and walked on ahead and opened the other door, too.

"Where is your husband from?" he asked me.

"Poland," I said.

"Oh... he must be very sad. I am sorry." Poland had just lost to Germany, on the heels of its humilating defeat by Ecuador.

"Oh, well," I said, too surprised at being spoken to by the crabby neighbor to know what to say. "Losing to Germany...nothing new." I was thinking of the larger historical context, but it was a safe bet it applied to soccer too.

At the Corner of Risk and Reward

Life has become so normal here in New York in some ways that I forget, for whole days at a time, how hard it was to take a breath and jump, to leave a state I had lived in for 14 years, a workplace I had spent 11. To risk things getting worse, in any number of ways, in the hope that they might get better. Also, to repudiate what much of my adult life had been up to that point: a series of incremental changes, an avoidance of risk to the extent that this is possible. I leaped onto the vine and sailed off into the forest canopy. (The jungle is dark, but full of diamonds.)

Now my husband, who did not really choose anything but to come along for the ride and who graciously accepted a serious setback in his career to advance mine, stands at a similar fork. Two possibilities, two jobs. One in the city, as a cog in the vast machinery of the New York State bureacracy. Predictable, low-stress, chances of being laid off virtually nil. An easy commute (by the standards of this sprawling metropolis) of 45 minutes or so by F train. One in Northern New Jersey, 30 miles as the crow flies, which would not be such a bad commute if you were a crow. Humans in cars must face the Brooklyn Bridge, FDR Drive and the George Washington Bridge. (Which people here, always in a hurry, just seem to call "the GW," while the Brooklyn Bridge gets the dignity of its full title.)

Snow in winter, rain that floods lowlying portions of the FDR, crazy taxi drivers, the odd overturned fuel tanker that catches fire...And the fun isn't really over when he would get to work, at a leading maker of medical devices, where 10-hour days without overtime are encouraged and expected, where different research units jostle for money and turf and occasionally lose, leading to mass layoffs within divisions. Medical devices are a promising but volatile sector and it's unlikely but certainly possible that the entire company could fail or be taken over, brought low by its rivals' superior technology or a product-liability lawsuit.

The choice seems obvious, right? Except, as one might guess, the medical device maker pays more. Quite a bit more; enough to get one's attention. It's also considerably more interesting: smart co-workers, daily challenges, all that. But to be honest, what it's about is mostly the money.

So the question is, what's more important? What really matters? Money, or quality of life? Is high stress and the greater (though unknowable) risk of layoff worth the higher pay?

In North Carolina, if the experiment could somehow be replicated, I think the answer would be easier. Here, money plays a much larger role in our consciousness: housing is ruinously expensive, causing everything else to cost more, too. You are surrounded by, bombarded with, such absurd examples of excessive and obscene wealth that is hard not to feel poor and a bit sorry for yourself. (On the other hand, the geniunely poor, which we are not either, offer a cautionary lesson is how truly miserable, as opposed to merely challenging, life can be here.)

I knew it would be like this. No, I did not know it would be like this. If I had known, would I have chosen differently? Probably not, but I know in my heart that I have become a different person: sharper, more cynical, struggling for survival, whatever it means. The fact that I can even entertain the thought that my poor husband maybe (not at all sure he should) should take this job shows me what a mean, money-minded person I have become. Or is it simply that I want him to do what I did, to take the big risk in search of the big reward, as a way of validating my choice?