Visiting New York City was never on my bucket list, but I’m home from my first trip there and I confess; I loved it far more than I expected to. I’m not averse to cities. I grew up in Indianapolis, and when I moved back to that city after living away for ten years, I was thrilled to see how much it had grown and developed its “downtown.” That was only a microcosm of Manhattan, though.
I had the impression NYC was overhyped. I was wrong. I quickly tired of the traffic and hustling crowds, but I could spend many hours in Central Park and the Museum of Natural History. It was humbling to stand quietly for a moment contemplating what the sight of the Statue of Liberty has meant to so many people.
I could feel at home in Greenwich Village, slipping into a routine of grabbing a breakfast sandwich from a deli, fruit from a sidewalk display, or a coke and a slice of real pizza. I would love spending warm summer evenings people watching or sunny winter afternoons reading in Washington Park.
I tell myself these things and yet inside, I know that I’m only capturing these scenes through my writer’s eyes. I’m creating a world in my imagination. In reality, I’d end up spending most of my time in front of this computer trying to create the stories that could very well be taking place in New York City … or my own.