First stop in America: New York City.
Our plane plopped down on the tarmac after an eight-hour flight from London. I was tired as hell towing my navy-blue suitcase. A muscular Homeland Security official stood at attention with his feet shoulder width apart as he flipped through my passport for an empty spot to stamp my book. “Wow, you’re never home!” he said with a giant smile. I gave a half-smile back.
It wasn’t a great start, and it got worse when I took the train in the wrong direction. After turning around and arriving at the correct station, the wind blew rain in my face as I dragged my stuff down Flatbush to my friend’s quintessentially Brooklynesque apartment, with vintage finds, a boho lamp and exposed red brick walls. I was so tired I fell asleep to the siren sounds of New York.
One morning soon after, the city completely changed moods.
It was a pleasant New York: Blue skies, slight chill, sun overhead. Autumn leaves hung on trees and floated to the pavement. I spent a few lazy days wandering around. I walked over the Brooklyn Bridge, sunned myself on a bench in Central Park, gazed at art in the Frick and Guggenheim museums. I satiated cravings for bowls of Chinese noodles at Xi’an Famous Foods, Dian Kitchen, Very Fresh Noodles and a Cantonese hole-in-the-wall. I strolled along the Highline, an old railroad converted into a pedestrian walkway, and lingered around bars and coffee shops and boutiques with friends in Chelsea. I bought an overpriced dress and sweater in Williamsburg.
I don’t think I love New York enough to ever live there, but I certainly loved to visit.
