I was in New York a few weeks ago, and I stayed with a dear friend at her lovely apartment. After the gossip and the wine, the lights were eventually turned out, and I tiptoed over to the window to peek through the blinds at the world below.
New York, New York. The city that never sleeps. I don't know if I will ever call it "home" again, but it will always feel like a mix of familiarity and strangeness. I've seen it all before, yet I still get that shivering thrill when the lights glow against the night sky, and the buildings soar up in the sky in ways that shock me. We don't have that in DC. Life is closer to the ground, slower. I feel smaller in the city, humbled by the skyscrapers, the languages, the rush, the importance. It might be lonely to some, but I feel surrounded by stories and the lives of many, and together they weave around me and sweep me into the fabric of New York. It's okay, they say, we'll take care of you here... as long as you don't block the sidewalk. Just keep moving.
If it's not home, then I don't quite know what it is. Maybe it's a dream. Maybe it's a fantasy. But as I pressed my fingers to the window, trying to reach out to the Empire State Building, maybe it didn't really matter. Maybe it's just the New Yorker in me.
