People confess their love for cities all the time, everywhere: on t-shirts and caps, bumper stickers and water bottles. “I ♥ NY” is probably one of the most successful marketing campaigns geared toward promoting tourism ever.
But what does it mean to love a city? Do the lovers of a contemporary megalopolis, such as New York, feel affection for every one of its millions of inhabitants? For all the buildings, traffic-clogged streets, highways, and sewage systems that make up its infrastructure? Do they love the Big Apple as a whole? The seemingly infinite possibilities for entertainment it offers? The feeling of being in the right place at the right time: Time Square, New Year’s Eve?
When we shower our love onto a city, it is most likely an idealized image that we hold so dear. The shabby reality of everyday urban life is either overlooked or not registered altogether: few tourists visit the Bronx or Queens, those parallel worlds that are practically set apart from the glamor of Manhattan. To confess our love for a city is to conjure up a utopia, an object of affection that does not really exist.
That is how easily recognizable landmarks—Empire State Building, Brooklyn Bridge, and so on—acquire their bigger-than-life significance. These privileged parts of the city stand in for the whole in a substitution that makes the process of idealization possible. New York “is” Chrysler Building, and it “was” the Twin Towers. The magical feeling of being there is, in part, due to the enchantment of these parts that miraculously condense the whole, while hiding from sight the city’s messier facets. One knows that one is in New York so long as one catches glimpse of the imposing rooftops of Empire State and Chrysler Buildings. The rest does not matter.