So we went to New York last month. We were there for a week, which is just enough time to see enough things to say you saw New York but also not enough time to see everything so you know you have to go back.
We did all the touristy things, Statue of Liberty, tops of tall buildings, getting lost, recoiling in horror at the price of everything, attending a Broadway show sweaty and disheveled from a day of walking. So. Much. Walking.
By day two, we all agreed that New York City was indeed, the greatest city in the world, and we should all move there posthaste. By day seven, a bit of the seamy underbelly had peeked out and the reality of a cost of living four times (at least) that of Dallas had set in. (I genuinely do not know how anyone in New York can afford to live there. Wherever we ate, we tipped generously, assuming that our server was most likely sleeping in the bathtub of a one bedroom tenth floor walkup she shared with eight other people. )
Money aside, I still want to live in New York. Because the sidewalks are wide and meant for pedestrians, and there’s a sandwich shop and drug store on every corner. Because everyone has a dog, and the dogs are all incredibly mellow.
Because the streets are as full at ten p.m. as they are at ten a.m. Because none of these people actually expect or even want you to talk to them, so you have that sense of community without the annoyance of interaction. Because there is always something happening, right in front of you. Because New Yorkers hate Trump even more than I do, a state of being I honestly didn’t think was possible.
Because of this face:
This is wonder and amazement, my friends. And you seldom make this face once you are past the age of believing in Santa. Not unless you’re in New York.