Two Villages, Two Very Different Girls

The East Village and West Village sit side by side in lower Manhattan, yet feel like completely different worlds. In my mind, the two neighborhoods have always felt like people or characters, almost like sisters who grew up together and somehow have turned out to be complete opposites.

Like any good character, it doesn’t take long to get a sense of who they each are. While one was out until 3 am, the other is probably already booked for brunch.

The East Village girl takes her 3 am partying reputation with pride. She most likely spent her evening sipping cheap cocktails at some dingy dive bar, wearing a skirt just slightly too short. Her millions of friends have sent her a surplus of invitations to plans for the night, but she’s set with her best few girls at the bar. She grabs a beer from the corner store on the way and keeps her lip gloss in her biker boots; her purse is already overflowing with miscellaneous items. Countless receipts, a book she’s been meaning to read, and a pair or two of extra sunglasses, all mixed in with the ashes of cigarette clips.

After a couple of drinks, a good mingle, and a little bit of bickering with the bartender, it’s her time to go. Her night ends with a 99-cent slice from the place at the end of her block, where the workers know her so well that they don’t bother charging her anymore. She sleeps in her makeup and wakes up with just barely enough time to get ready and catch the subway for her shift.

Her morning coffee is whatever’s closest and cheapest. If she’s really crunched for time, she’ll settle for an energy drink. Her outfit is confusing at first glance. You can’t quite tell why it works, but somehow, it does. It’s tasteful and creative in a way that doesn’t need explaining. And the East Village girl has no time for explaining. She rocks a mix of thrifted finds that, despite belonging to someone before her, look like they were made specifically for her, alongside pieces she’s probably had since high school. If you ignore her unmanicured nails and the sole glued back onto her shoe, she looks like a model off duty.

Her sister in the West Village, on the other hand, has probably never seen 3 a.m. in her life. Her night begins with a homemade cocktail, preferably something fresh, as she dolls herself up for the evening. Her vanity is stocked to the brim with beauty products, and her knowledge of them all is impressive, if not a little threatening.

She's out the door by 7 p.m., slightly buzzed, her kitten heels clinking like horse hooves as she stomps down the stairs of her brownstone apartment. She arrives at the reservation-only wine and appetizer spot with ten minutes to spare, just enough time to guiltily smoke down a slim. Her friends arrive in a flurry of giggles and clanking bangles, their perfume detectable from miles away. Her sweater drapes off her shoulder, holding up her satin dress in a way that makes you think the look was effortless, when it was anything but. Her dinner costs more than her East Village sister's entire week, and the plan has been in the books for two weeks.

She’s home and ready for bed by 10:30, which is even a little late for her, considering, of course, her 7 A.M. Pilates class. And though she could absolutely afford the cancellation fee, she won’t. By 6:30 am she’s up, slipping into a matching Alo workout set and heading out the door. She’s early, again, as usual. So, she has just enough time to get a matcha from her favorite spot where the barista knows her order by heart. Even in workout clothes, she looks perfect. Perfect enough to run into an ex-boyfriend, an old coworker, or even someone she went to high school with.

Despite being sisters, the two would probably have very little to discuss over dinner. And if the West Village sister isn’t paying, the East Village sister isn’t coming. I mean, come on, with the restaurants the West Village sister picks? In this economy?

They sit together, not quite looking logical. The East Village sister is wearing all black and a giant stack of silver jewelry. The West Village sister opposes her darkness with a romantic print on a flowy mini dress and one simple gold chain. It seems like someone missed the memo, didn’t hear about the dress code, but they both look so good you can’t figure out who it was.

The East Village sister questions how one could possibly ever have so much to say about Pilates, while her sister quietly wonders if she even has a proper skincare routine. They’re quick to judge each other’s lifestyles, and maybe even a little jealous of what the other has.

For all of their differences, the East Village and West Village are unmistakably New York. They might have different ideas of what to wear, where to go, or how to spend a Friday night, but they share the same streets and the same restless energy. Just a few blocks apart, they offer two very different versions of what life in New York can look like, and somehow, both fit right in. Because, despite how badly New York attempts to categorize its people, a city holding this much opportunity can never fit into just one box. And neither can its residents.

East Village girl or West Village girl: which one are you? Leave a comment below.