The good thing about having moved to Mexico City is that I get to go back to New York at least every two months. Ideally I would split my time by half between both places, which means enjoying the sweetest things of both and leaving the bad before it starts to crawl over you.  It is when you leave when you start to see those blind spots you missed because you were immersed for so long in such a dynamic and ever-changing place. For starters, the not-so-hidden fact that New York is extremely expensive. I’m 35 and have almost no savings. I don't own a property or even a car, I have very few things I can call my own, and really, who will care for my wardrobe? Not that I measure my life achievements based on material possessions, but unless I earn enough to live in the neighborhood where I want to live, eat where I want to eat, wear what I want to wear, and still save money for retirement, I’m not coming back for good. The other and most important piece is that New York reminds me of how lonely life can get. I’m not talking about the contemplative loneliness that gets you in the mood for writing. I’m talking about the I-don’t-want-the-weekend-to-come loneliness, as you fear the 6:00 PM mark on your watch every Friday. I was lucky enough to find great friends, those kind of friends that I see myself sharing the nursing home with. But for many years New York felt like a rollercoaster of great people that moved out of the city after two years. Each time leaving me crushed.  New York is a great place to live, but you need a family of friends, and knowing that Truman Capote lived in your building or that the world’s diversity is represented on a subway train is not sufficient. I change my previous statement, I don't care so much about the neighborhood, or the food, or the clothes. I won’t move back to New York unless someone can assure me that my great group of friends will still be there.