City That Never Sleeps

Maybe because there's just such a contrast between gravel paths and sidewalks, silos and skyscrapers, cow herds and human mobs, the Amish and the street vendors, cornfields and Times Square, or because the element of unpredictability just isn't as thrillingly present here, I find myself thinking of Manhattan more than I ever thought I would. I miss climbing on the big rocks near my Central Park playground (incidentally, the Gates installation feels so long ago), walking around Lincoln Center like I own the place, falling asleep to the symphony of sirens and yells and honks, wondering how the subway drummer got his groove, running through the Museum of Natural History to find my favorite displays, biting into the delicious panini at Fiorello's, excitedly reading cast bios right before a Broadway overture begins, pretending I am as harried as everyone else, and, of course, trying to absorb the pulse of the people into my bloodstream, to record everything they say as they pass by me under the scaffolding or in the crosswalk, little snippets of their lives that I can secretly tuck away like a good writer should. Maybe the country/city divide boils down to this: would you rather bump into acquaintances or strangers every day?

I'm sure I'd be terrified if I were actually in the city more than twice a month, but I could definitely go for some window shopping and roasted peanuts right now.