Some things would ONLY happen to you in New York. Like late-night ping pong at McFarren Park. Biking through lanes of pedestrians watching a free outdoor concert in Union Square. A conversation with a slightly crazed trash man looking for rats in the bushes. A laugh attack in a Chinese restaurant (actually, this could happen anywhere). Discovering two independent book stores within a couple blocks of each other. Trying to distinguish plain tart from Euro tart (they taste the same) at a yogurt spot.
This is a low-key trip. I’m trying to really imagine living here this time around. If I imagine hard enough, maybe the universe will hear me and grant me this wish.
I’m staying in Brooklyn tonight. The pearl in the oyster that is New York city. Behind the boarded windows and inside the bedraggled buildings is an aesthetic paradise that artists flock to — a secret that hipsters strive to protect. This is the territory of the searching, the struggling, the inwardly beautiful. You can’t tell by just looking at it. Then again, that’s not the point.
In a city like this, you can be lonely, though barely ever alone. The best moments in life are those you share with others. No matter how breathtaking a solitary sunset, how thrilling a busy city street, or how ambrosial a soy chai latte, life is incomplete without friends to share these things with.