Here is the scenario. You are enjoying an afternoon gathering of family and friends in the galería of your family’s house. As you begin to catch the soft tropical breeze, someone out of the blue will say: “¡Diaaaaache! En ningún otro país se vive así. Mira lo bien que estamos nosotros en tranquilidad full, bebiéndonos una fría. A que tú no haces eso allá.”
The presence of Dominican-Yorks triggers Islanders to bash The City for no reason other than to prove that they are better than us. The minute they learn that visitors from los países are present, a loghorrea of how wonderful the Island is immediately ensues. Islanders have an obsessive and incessant need to make useless comparisons between The City and The Island. This zealous underscoring of Island life safeguards the real reason why Islanders berate our City, and that is the resentment they feel when all privileges cease to exist upon landing in NYC.
Islanders thrive on getting the so-called VIP treatment. They have deluded themselves into believing that they are entitled to better service than anyone else, and if by golly they deem it as inferior than expected, they will either (1) be in a complete uproar and go on a very public and visible rant, or (2) engage in hard-core mueleo (see March 18) to demand the superb treatment considered as rightfully theirs. (This kind of mueleo usually involves stating a prominent last name, or asserting they know a coronel or teniente).
During one of my many visits, someone told me how much he hates NYC because “¿Tú sabes lo que es eso? Que tratan a uno así tirao, a lo foque. ¡Jesú dios! Ni loco voy pa’ llá. ¿A buscar qué? Si aquí yo soy un rey.” To what I responded, “Ah bueno… tú lo que quieres es que traten como los Vanderbilts sin serlo.” Thus, what makes Islanders upset about The City is that there is no such thing as a cafecito while waiting for the next bank teller, or colarse to the front of the line because they know Don Fulano.
Now, I will not argue against the notion that there is privilege everywhere in the world. But in The City that never sleeps, every hard earned dollar counts, no matter what pocket it came from. And while one cannot expect the red carpet treatment at a greasy spoon diner, rest assured that at 21 Club your libation will be shaken with the same verve as the one ordered by the bonus-touting suit from Goldman-Sachs sitting next to you, because your twenty-dollar bill has the same portrait of Jackson as hers. Here, unless you are willing to shed three hundred dollars for a bottle at the club, your ass will be standing in line like the rest of us plebs, and when you think you deserve to colarte because you are sporting Diesel Jeans bought at Acropolis, wake up and smell the starbucks, so is everybody else.
As I close, I must take you back to the beginning of this entry, my fellow Yorkies. If you find yourself becoming increasingly infuriated about the unsolicited bashing of our City, I guarantee that upon saying ¡salud! and before the brain freeze from la fría kicks in, someone a little bit more real (while struggling to turn on la planta o el inversor) will respond “¿Tú sabes que atracaron al hijo de perensejo saliendo del súper a la hora de las doce y le robaron el celular?”
Justice has been served on the rocks.