I was in New York City, the Concrete Jungle, the Big Apple, the Island of the Rat King, for the very first time last week. I had literally no expectations, save for thatwhere Kristen Johnson screams “Nobody is fun anymore!” and falls out of a window. I’d read hundreds of “Leaving New York” essays, where people older and more jaded informed the rest of us that the city was cancelled, or over, or dead, or dying, or generally lacking everything the rest of the country assumed it was bursting with.
When I arrived at my room, there wasn’t anything to stick the keycard in. I just stood there, puzzling over how exactly I was expected to enter my room if it was just a smooth wall, and a door with no key-card-sticker-inner. A couple speaking Russian eventually offloaded themselves from the elevator after about 10 minutes, and I watched as the man tapped his keycard against the door. Fancy! Inside, I gasped at how massive the hotel room was, the size of my own apartment back in the Bay.
As Emily and I wove our way through the Times Square crowd, I was accosted by a Transformer, an Elsa fromto recognize. When I finally got my first look at the proper New York City skyline, crowned in more concrete than I ever saw in my life, I cried some more. I didn’t know buildings could be so tall, and or where all those people could possibly fit on the streets below.
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