Very New York City. While it has been going on forever, over the last few years it has definitely taken on a certain cache. Scoping out the trash, even if only with a quick glance, has become a veritable New York institution, a treasure-hunt that, like the best of games (and the best of New York City as it happens), blends skill with luck.

Trash shopping, or free cycling, is a direct result of the mixture of randomness and friction that give this City its thrill. Wealth and poverty, functionality and creativity, authenticity and irony, all grate up against each other every day on the streets. It is these turbulent forces that make an object’s value constantly variable, fomenting this massive, informal, and anonymous exchange of goods. Part of its recent appeal is the premium on all things old that has occurred over the past decade. Simply put, old is the new, well, new. Vintage clothing shops tend to be more expensive than their first-hand counterparts, and the same goes for furniture. Not only that, new furniture made to look old is more popular than ever, as evidenced by the Shabby Chic lines available at major retailers like Target and Kmart. Even jeans, an item people used to be proud to break in on their own, are now subjected to special “treatments” that, for $400, make the denim feel worn.

Perhaps this desire for things that have a story, or things that appear to have a story, is a result of our tendency to idealize the past. Living in times of unprecedented abundance makes individual items seem less special. It also makes originality more difficult to come by. Therefore, a slightly wobbly art deco vanity table or a mint condition high-wasted 70s black wool skirt (both items discovered by friends of mine in a pile of trash), that are likely to be mass-produced by chain stores nationwide, are far more charming second-hand. Doubly charming if discovered in a pile of someone else’s dross. It lends to its tale.

Of course there is also a utilitarian side to it. You need a lamp. You see a garbage dump destined lamp. You take the lamp. This act saves everything from money, to time, to the energy and resources your un-bought new lamp used up to make. By grabbing someone else’s IKEA side table, charmingly tacky old dishes, or natural fiber rug, you are taking part in an activity that is both anti-capitalist and pro-environment.

This potential hasn’t gone unnoticed by a group of hopeful liberals, who have developed a whole movement around trash shopping. Freeganism, as its called, is a movement based on trash foraging. According to their website, Freeganists employ “waste reclamation” as their main tool in combating the over-consumption of resources. For them trash can yield breakfast, lunch, and dinner, as well as a fall wardrobe. While their philosophies and actions are commendable, I do think the dogmatism strips a little of the magic out of trash shopping. By placing it in an organized system, the chance factor, along with that ephemeral sensation of kismet, is lost. That wide-eyed feeling of anything can happen – a sensation that is trademark New York in fact and in fantasy – cannot exist if finding stuff in the trash is your primary ism.

Intimacy in New York is, ultimately, a wayward concept. It is easy to argue that this City is far more intimate than any of its American counterparts, but I am not so sure that our compact living quarters really do yield any more intimacy. What I am certain they do bring is curiosity. Our interest in others is indefatigable, and we find strange little ways to connect. Trash shopping is just this. The people around us remain strange, but their stuff doesn’t have to be that way. There is also greediness; not really full-on greed but definitely more than a civic responsibility to keep the sidewalks clean. We love and need stuff. All kinds of it. And if it costs zilch its so much the better. But in our own defense, there is something more going on than getting something cool or handy for free. There is the romantic idea of rescuing something from the oblivion of a garbage dump, plucking that one special item out of the refuse pile and giving it a new life. Of course along with this new life is the musing on its old life.

When I first arrived in New York I stayed with my boyfriend for a few months before I found a place of my own. My dear literary Luddite had a 13-inch TV that he had inherited from his grandfather who passed away in 1984. I am not the biggest TV fan, but when I do choose to sit down for some well-deserved late night syndication, I like to be able to see. So when on my way home during my second week in town, I noticed a hefty 34-inch sitting on the corner besides the trash, I took my first important step to becoming a Resident. And only after some serious pleading, a couple octaves higher than my normally gravely voice. In an act of extraordinary strength my boyfriend lifted it up and carried it down the block to his apartment.

The TV was in great shape, though a tad too big for the apartment, most apartments probably. (Part of the cache is making it obvious to everyone that it has been reclaimed from the street; the bizarre version of conspicuous consumption.) I suppose it came from one of the million-dollar single residences on the street and replaced no doubt by a giant state-of-the-art, ridiculously expensive flat screen variety. I imagine a slightly outmoded TV of ours will end up on our sidewalk in 15 years, only to be rescued by a young and easily charmed couple. Anyway, it’s true. One person’s trash is another person’s, if imperfect, if amusing, if totally unnecessary, treasure. It’s circuitry. It’s New York. And we love it.