Once a Buffalonian, always a Buffalonian?

During these incessantly gray, spring-is-not-even-close Buffalo winter days, even the staunchest of Queen City advocates will probably admit that at least for a moment, they've wondered if the grass is greener in other cities--if living elsewhere wouldn't be a good, if not great, idea. Especially when the grass is not covered in a foot of snow. I readily admit I have been guilty of having those thoughts. Twice I actually acted on them, moving to both Western North Carolina and Manhattan, wanting to find out if better weather or the big city would make for a more fulfilling existence. And while I still remain a proud Elmwood Villager, there are moments--albeit few and far between--that I wonder if I made the right choice. But it was late this fall on a weekend getaway to my old stomping grounds in New York when I realized that the idea of fleeing my hometown again will remain just that--a distant, errant thought. It was my Buffalo "aha" Moment. From the way the trip was going, it was a revelation that I could never have predicted. I had always loved the palpable energy of the Big Apple, and this particular evening it seemed to be amped up even higher that I remembered. I was staring down the barrel of my ideal night--reservations at much-buzzed-about restaurant, a pair of Broadway tickets in my pocket, and absolutely nothing on my schedule the next morning that would keep me from staying out as long as I wanted. In the past, it was weekends like these that made me board the plane back to Buffalo with a heavy heart. I was hanging with an old high school friend who left Buffalo, but unlike me, had no intention of returning anytime soon. Annie had rooted herself in Manhattan, flourishing in a career as a television producer at MTV, where I worked as the writer for both her shows. But don't be fooled by her address--much like myself, she is proud to be a Buffalo native, a fact that no one can dispute seeing as though she has a tattoo of the Grand Island Bridge on her wrist. We had time to kill, as dinner at an Italian place on the Lower East side wasn't for another hour. So we randomly ducked into a nearby restaurant for a drink without even looking up at its name. It had a cozy, tropical feel with fresh flowers on tea-lighted tables, an aquarium-sized punch bowl of sangria calling out to us at the end of the bar. But it isn't the bulging glasses of wine that I'll remember most from that evening; it's the bartender who was wearing a shirt that said "I Left My Heart On Elmwood." Although I had never actually seen the design before, it had all the makings of a City Love creation, and I knew it was too much of a coincidence. When we asked where he was from, I wasn't surprised when he said, "Buffalo." What was surprising was the way he said it. There was a longing in it. Here was a guy who was living in what many regard as one of the greatest cities on earth, and he was pining for Western New York. His story was not uncommon; he left in order to find work. Actually, he was punching the clock at two jobs--one in his chosen career path, and low and behold, this bartending gig that he needed in order to make his lofty rent for his not-so-lofty apartment. Hmmm. Suddenly, the stinging pain I had felt every month when writing the check for my Upper East Side closet--uh, I mean, apartment--was fresh in my memory. Soon we were naming all our Buffalo favorites: strolling down Elmwood with a cup of coffee, tailgating at 9AM before a Bills game, Shea's, late night chicken finger subs at Jim's Steakout, Thursday at the Square and the Albright-Knox. But most of all we talked about the people. Their heart, their desire to help their neighbors, and of course, their ability to withstand the two most frustrating sports franchises on the planet (but still signing up for season tickets). The community of Western New York is the secret ingredient that makes Buffalo an irresistible recipe, keeping the once ex-pats coming back for more. Before we left, our bartender did what any good Buffalo boy would do--he gave us two shots on the house. We returned the favor by over-tipping, which of course is customary when given free drinks by a hospitable bartender, but our Buffalo brotherhood upped the ante. As we dashed through the rain to our next stop, I realized that I wasn't crazy or delusional; there are good things about Buffalo, real reasons to stay. And while there is no denying that Buffalo has its downfalls, it still has plenty of culture and sports and good people to surround myself with, at a price that doesn't involve nearly as much monthly wincing. And so the rest of that night, I soaked up every New York moment, for Buffalo will never, ever be Manhattan. And I relished every second until our taxi dropped us home. But this time, when I sat waiting at my LaGuardia gate the next day, my heart didn't sink when I heard over the loudspeaker that the Buffalo flight was ready to board. I calmly put away my magazine and walked down the jetway, content. And so I won't be changing area codes anytime soon and my shovel isn't going anywhere. But in the dead of winter, while I will always yearn for the green tunnel of trees that line my street or the green fields of Delaware Park buried deep under layers of snow, I will not be yearning for the green on the other side of the fence.

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