I love New York. I know. It’s big. It’s noisy. It’s not always clean. It’s not just crowded, its sidewalks are jam-packed with people. Say what you will, I love all those things for three days at a time.
While foreigners probably think of America as one giant New York City, and believe we all live loud lives in a teeming anthill, the truth is much more simple: the rolling hills and plains and gardens that dot our landscape more aptly describe us. We live simple lives. We kiss our babies, mow lawns, plant gardens and weed endlessly. The national pulse rests at a healthy 80 beats per minute.
So why do I love New York City? It’s alive. Vitally alive. It quickens the dead spot in my heart and I feel it beating again. I needed this time, this space of time, to know my heart will one day heal. That’s the real gift New York City, with all its disparate parts, has given me. These noisy, teeming throngs of people are friendly, helpful with directions, proud of their city. I sat and cooed with a baby bouncing on a proud daddy’s knee. I carried on a serious (very serious) princess conversation with a 4-year-old on the subway. (She likes Tangled, but she loves Frozen, not a fan of Moana. Really? How is that even possible?) When I strip away the hyperbole, I find this fantastic array of people and lights and frenetic action are also my America. And I love it. Three days at a time. Goodbye, New York City. (Bill says “Good riddance!”) Hello, Paris!