My friend who lives in the Village recently asked me, "How do you like living...up ...THERE?" Up there? You mean on Mars?

I knew what she meant. I hear it often. My friend who lives in a 500 square foot box in the heart of Greenwich Village is confused by my desire to live uptown. Cynics refer to my neighborhood as "Upstate Manhattan." I prefer to call it "NoHar" (short for North of Harlem).

It's a cozy little community settled just between Harlem and Washington Heights. I'm on the west side, in a turn of the century building near the banks of the Hudson River. Having moved from the Upper West Side, which was a little too WASP-y for my taste, this place has come to suit me. I lived in San Francisco for a long time and felt the mix of cultures that worked together so effortlessly there was community ideal. This is close.

I hate to funnel money into rent so after a year's residency as a renter in Manhattan, I wanted to buy something. I found the apartment I live in now advertised in the New York Times. It was a co-op, the price was right and the square footage was comparable to a house in California. Unheard of in Manhattan. I called our real estate agent and she was surprised. "Oh, you're such a pioneer!" she exclaimed. It was hardly my intent to make a statement. I seek only a few things: Enough room to stretch out in my home and a total mixed bag of humanity around me. This seemed to fit the bill.

The neighborhood is tight, made up of Dominican and African American families who have lived here for generations. On a Saturday, the street is full of vendors pedaling tropical fruit, vegetables or bootleg CDs. The air always smells like cilantro, fried chicken and freshly peeled oranges. We've got the best hospital in Manhattan two blocks away. Harlem, with its wonderful restaurants and the fabled Apollo Theater, is nearby. Columbia University, only a twenty minute walk. It's really quite a wonderful place to dwell. It's a genuine community.

When we first moved here, the logal bodega owners, grocery store cashiers and dry cleaners eyed us with cool suspicion. Now, we're on a first name basis. I see the regulars on the street, a few I know by name, and we're all cool. After a year, finally integrated into the fabric of the community. Part of the scene of characters. I like that.

It was the right call. What my Village dwelling friend doesn't realize is that I have three times the living space that she does and in a neighborhhood that statistically has 23% less crime that where she lives. Pointless to bring it up. It'd be boorish to be smug.

The hot summer months in particular remind me why this neighborhood is special: People come out to the streets to congregate. On a sweltering Saturday, folding lawn chairs line the sidewalk. People gather to lounge and chat. Radios play a ball game, samba music or hip hop. Kids play stickball or football in the middle of the street or hand ball against the side of a building. A hydrant may get opened, eliciting shrieks of pleasure from a gaggle of children who romp in the gush of the water. There's pure and easy life around you and everyone simply belongs to this little part of the world.