I hate having to admit that Dean was right, but he usually is. He was right three years ago when he noted that I do not like people.

At that time, I did "like people" as much as I possibly could, but compared to how Dean treats others, and compared to what I am capable of now, yeah, back then I was a miserable failure.

New York is a pressure cooker for human development; this city will make or break you. I don't know what it is that makes some people break, and others grow and bloom. How come some have to just leave this place?

My memories of my first year in New York are sketchy at best; for a good year, I always was upset over this or that, I was utterly overstimulated. You know what goosebumps feel like? Now imagine feeling like that, non-stop, for 13, 14 months. I was basically humming along a new, scary frequency. It hasn't stopped, I just got used to certain routines, and learned to recognize patterns.

I once noted in a discussion with a pretty smart Indian that yoga is so successful in Manhattan because here, people really need to find focus and peace, whereas in a sleepy little village in India, nobody needs more rest. He agreed.

So, let's explore the idea of liking people, and how New York will get you there.

Last week, while browsing a bookstore, a woman (I imagine she was from California, and I am certain everybody else who witnessed this scene, thought so, too) started screaming: Superman! Superman! I always wanted to meet superman! All my life! Superman!

I did not look up; New York has seeped into my bones that much. I will think my little thoughts, I will not reward this kind of behaviour with any kinetic expressions of interest. You do not feed rats, trolls, or other misbehaving creatures. It took me about a second to figure out that there might be some actor who starred as superman having an awkward encounter with a fan. Next time I hear somebody throw a fit about a celebrity, my reaction will be shortened to, Great, somebody from out of town cannot get over the fact she is in New York. Yawn.

Native New Yorkers are too smug to be impressed by celebrities; if they were impressed, they would not have for anything else. And those who are New Yorkers by choice know how hard it was to take root here; coming here to live and retaining some sense of sanity was so tough you will never be impressed by any celebrities again, ever (I wonder if depravity of the Miley Cyrus magnitude is down to desperate attempts to impress hard-knock stoic Manhattanites?).

And of course, real New Yorkers take some pride in their love for equality; democracy in the sense Alexis de Torqueville understood it. Entitled folk, royalty, celebrities, will be treated like anybody else. It does not matter whether you are a scruffy borderline nutcase or a rich lawyer; to the cabbie or the EMT or the police officer, you both have exactly the same rights.

And there are only two ways to obtain treatment that goes beyond what everybody else receives. Money, or brute force. One method is accepted and effective, the other one not.

So, yes, you can buy princess treatment by purchasing a premium seat on a cruise. Dean did that for my birthday -- he spent a few dozen bucks more, and we enjoyed best seats on the boat, and a bottle of water waiting at your table. Compared to how royality is treated in Europe, this is democratic.

Quite a few extremely rich people do buy their way out of reality that way; that's their business. For normal people, enjoying a rare premium ticket is a fun thing to do, and probably socially healthy, too.

The point is, generally, everybody is equal before the law, and everybody is equal when it comes to how many subway seats you can claim (one for yourself, none for your dog or your bag), how much of a nuissance for others you can make of yourself (zero), how much extra respect you get for your professional achievements while you are a random person on the street or in a bookstore (zero). Happen to be famous? Who cares, you get the same treatment as everybody else.

I did feel sorry for the superman dude. And I was proud of all my fellow New Yorkers on that floor for resisting the urge to look up, or give any other damns. This poor woman kept walking around with an oblivious smile, and tried to tell others that this was the greatest day of her life. Nobody was willing to acknowledge her, at the same time nobody wanted to ruin her day by lecturing her on New York etiquette. I just loved them all.

I left the store being proud to be a New Yorker.

A little later, a gay man complimented me on my hair. My hair is a mess, always, but he put a smile on my face. Now that's what a real New Yorker does.

And like my Indian friend, I enjoy recognizing the extension of a god into the temporary realm in each face I see on the street. If I smile at you in the street, it's not because I have seen you on TV. It's because I am capable of seeing a god in you.