Walking down Bleeker Street towards 6th Avenue with my new corporate roommate—his first time outside of Australia—a siren squawked briefly from behind. After I made a quick step to the left, an NYPD cruiser squeezed past the stopped traffic, two wheels on the sidewalk rolling right through where I had been.
God, how I love this city!
Last night I slept better than I have all week. All week, I'd stay up late, but would still wake up after four or five hours, too tired to get up, but unable to return to sleep. Amazing what ills an evening with good friends can cure.
This morning I took a stroll through the West Village, and decided to keep going all the way down Hudson through Tribeca, previously unexplored terrain. Hooked a left when it intersected West Broadway, and wandered back up through Soho.
Before stopping at the Borgia Cafe at Spring and West Broadway for brunch and a latte, I passed by an art gallery. In the window sat a photo of Jimi straining to bend a note, an image I must've seen a thousand times before. This time, however, after the great time out with friends last night, and walking all around the city throughout the brisk-yet-gorgeous morning, seeing Jimi pouring himself into that single, silent, distant note jolted me into a moment of clarity. There's one reason above all I love this city so much, why it accepts me, why it inspires me, why it makes me feel like a better human being, why nowhere else feels as right: This is home.
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