Notes from New York

The happiest person in this entire city is the woman who says "Good morning! Heads up! It's your day!" with enviable exuberance as she hands out newspapers at the Bryant Park subway stop, as bleary-eyed commuters stream by her with their heads down. Or maybe she's the saddest, and the best at faking.

Did you know there are so many ginger Jews?

One day I will walk into the Church of Sweden on East 48th and just stand in their book-filled reception area. Something makes me think it will smell comforting. 

I thought a man was waving at me from inside an office lobby. He was just washing windows from the inside.

My boyfriend doesn't toss his finished cigarettes and it is this, in part, that I love about him. The sidewalks here are artifacts of the inconsiderate.

Moment Witnessed in Times Square at Exactly 9 O'Clock AM:
—Sightseeing-bus ticket-seller hails someone across 7th Avenue, shouting, "How's it going, brother?"
—Uniformed security man shouts back, "Have a blessed day, man! A blessed day!"

I will always be surprised when I chance upon a diplomatic mission (I have found Mexico and Botswana quite by accident this past week); they're little reminders that a slice of your home, whomever you may be, can indeed be found in this overwhelming urban jungle.

There are so many people here that it is particularly disarming when you recognize one—an acquaintance on the street, a stranger in a subway station. Circulate the same commute enough times and this second one will happen, if you're observant enough. But most startling is seeing in a passerby's face the semblance of someone you know well: your mother if she didn't dye her hair, your brother circa age six on a swingset, your uncle's doppelgänger in a wine shop—you, aged three decades.