New York Diary: My Kind of Town
Sometime in the early morning, just before Central Park, I called my wife because I was simply too happy to contain myself. I had to tell her something, but I couldn’t put it into words. Perhaps I had never been so alive. New York can be like that—once in a while the city slows down and becomes ours, we look up, we see ourselves as a part of something very fine and rare, green and black, slowly growing. Not I am, but there it is. That New York exists is a miracle, and for its citizens, the city offers as good a shot at transcendence as any forest or cathedral. The awareness of being part of something more sublime—this crumbling, singing city, and all our lives crumbling and singing too—somehow walking the island’s body before people are on the streets makes the chance to have that feeling much greater. It’s a fleeting moment, only two seconds long, but it’s there.