Easy listening: Why you can’t be lonely in New York

“I told her, you need to get over yourself.” Walking down Sixth Avenue in Manhattan on a balmy autumn evening, this was one of the many snippets of dialogue that came bounding into my ears. Do New Yorkers project more than everyone else, or are they all just closer to each other? Probably a bit of both, but my promenade through other people’s conversations made me realise how much I miss hearing them.

Where I live now is your more suburban experience, meaning it’s possible to take a long walk through tree-lined streets and not really hear anyone speak. You’ll pass the occasional dog and his or her walker, of course; some cheeky squirrels; a schoolkid or two. This time of year, though, the soundtrack of a stroll through my neighbourhood is the crunch of leaves underfoot. There’s peace and quiet; no frisson of intrigue that comes from gaining a brief insight into someone else’s life.

In New York, it’s not even eavesdropping. You don’t have a choice but to listen, whether it’s because your two-top table is right next to another one in a trendy but tiny boîte or because you’re waiting to cross the street and the couple standing next to you happen to be loudly breaking up with one another.

There’s a reason why Overheard in New York, a blog which started at the turn of the millennium dedicated to memorialising these tidbits, is still going strong. Americans say kids say the darndest things – but New Yorkers say them louder. “It’s hard to be lonely here,” concluded a friend, an inveterate city resident, over lunch in a shoebox of a restaurant. No doubt our talk was being digested by the people next to us.

In New York, it’s not even eavesdropping. You don’t have a choice but to listen.

I see what she meant. You’re constantly reminded of your proximity to other humans, their humanity often shoved, literally, in your face, though I’ve also experienced how that seething mass can, at times, curdle into misanthropy, a sense of resentment over the lack of personal space. New York is claustrophobic and cosy in equal measure, and it’s a combination Steve Martin and Martin Short captured in Only Murders in the Building so well.

On the up side, if getting in my 10,000 steps in my home of Washington, DC occasionally feels like a chore, in New York the count tends to fly by, all on the wings of other people’s problems. I realised this on leaving the party early that I’d come to New York for, so I could walk the long way back to my hotel. I wanted to take in all of Manhattan’s sights and sounds (the smells I could leave).

And the island didn’t disappoint. Young folk conducted their business on corners with a startling absence of shame or self-consciousness. Old folk did the same. Normally, for an hour-long walk, I’d pop in my headphones and listen to a podcast. But the soundtrack on this occasion was way too interesting.

If this was 19th-century Paris and I was an aristocratic man in knickerbockers, you might call me a flâneur, one who wanders aimlessly, taking in the urban spectacle. There’s no feminine equivalent to the flâneur in French. Yet while there was no word which seemed apt, the experience – surrounded by other people, in the flesh (not on a screen), and hearing them talk – was nothing short of exhilarating.

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