I came to New York City alone, to live, 11 years ago today. I knew two people here. I had a four-month sublet in an apartment I shared with two graduate students on 89th St. just off Broadway. The man who owned it lived in LA during the winter and for some reason had all the windows boarded up, so it looked like a cave inside a dungeon buried in a basement, but I loved it. It was New York City! I was living the dream!
It was about 50 degrees the day I arrived, and foggy and humid. The first thing I did was walk to the Food Emporium around the corner to buy milk and cereal. I needed to feel like I was home.
I went for a long walk on New Year's Day—this is the first picture I took, with my Canon PowerShot A710, of the reservoir in Central Park. I didn't know how familiar it would be to me one day, how many times I would circle it on a run, how many miles of sweat I would leave behind me.
And this, on Fifth Avenue:
And this on Sixth Avenue, which I now pass every day on my way to work:
And this, which I work right next to:
I've learned an awful lot since that day—mostly for the better, although I remain naive about many worldly things. And it's been grand, you know? It really has. But it's also time to move the fuck on.