I played hooky yesterday afternoon – and fell back in love with New York.
I hadn't exactly fallen OUT of love, but we’d been getting on each other’s nerves a bit.
I went to The Met, and gazed at the cityscape from the roof as it glinted in the sun, wandered its near-empty halls, chose my favorite dress from Sandy Shreier’s collection in the Costume Institute …
Afterwards, I met a friend for drinks – we ate thick fries and drank cheap wine from plastic cups as we talked about men, and break ups, and books we were reading, our laughter almost drowned out by fire trucks screaming up the avenue and sports fans roaring at the ball game on TV.
Cycling home through the park in the dark, dodging rats and late-night joggers, the city was almost obscene in her glorious opulence. Despite everything, she’s still putting her lipstick on every night; glamming up in her best dress, ready for a party that won’t be happening anytime soon.
I love New York for all those reasons, and more. But mainly for its resilient, sassy, salty, sweet souls, so many of whom have been almost broken by the last six months. What a privilege to know you.
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