Buildings, tall buildings, taller buildings than I’d ever seen, and they’re all surrounding me. Buildings so tall they block the view of the sunlight, and the view anything that stands in their way. And the people, all the people, walking so swiftly they might as well run, never looking at one another, just looking at what’s ahead. I wish I knew where they were all going, why they were all in such a hurry, why they couldn’t stop to notice the majesty. I must have looked strange standing there, soaking it all in while others didn’t even stop long enough to get their feet wet.
My first bite of the Big Apple. I didn’t expect it to taste like this; handsome, harrowing, haunting. Who stood here before me? Were they lost and needing direction, or were they just admiring the fact that they found their way? How many stories have walked these streets, etching their words into the sidewalk like children do with chalk. And the chalk gets erased, by rain or by time, but that doesn’t mean the story wasn’t there. That doesn’t mean the sidewalk forgot. A collection of stories, that’s what this city is. A collection of fables.
I’ll play a game, I’ll walk a little brisker. I’ll see how many of these tall buildings I can pass, how many yellow taxis I can count, how many cell phones I hear ring. This is a place of opportunity and a place of adventure, and every single person I pass has their own reason for being here. And my reason? To feel the wind pass over my scarf and through my hair. To sit on a bench and let my mind wander. To take a subway and get off at an unknown stop. To lend a dollar to the street entertainer to my left. And above all? To find my own form of adventure.
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