There is no place like it, no place with an atom of its glory, pride, and exultancy. It lays its hand upon a man’s bowels; he grows drunk with ecstasy; he grows young and full of glory, he feels that he can never die.
-Walt Whitman
“It's just literally so peaceful, you guys. I’m serious. Yoga has really done wonders for, like, my soul and my health and stuff,” Jeanine babbled on as we practically galloped down the avenue in heels after eating sushi and having drinks. I wasn’t sure where we were headed— I was mostly focused on not dropping the bottle of wine I was hauling across the city while pretending to be a local.
I’d arrived in Manhattan earlier that day, solo, with one hand wrapped tightly around the handle of my suitcase as I conquered the heat wave on a bus in Queens, then sat across from a girl in a subway car who, at three in the afternoon, wore a little black dress and smeared makeup from the night before. Inching closer, I swore I could f e e l the city. My camera dangled from my neck as I rolled the suitcase through SoHo, weaving between residents and interns and homeless people, wide-eyed and just yearning for material: things to write about, to photograph, to capture.
I anticipated the grunge. The avant-garde. The vintage. The hole-in-the-wall coffee shops and the wall murals, the string lights and the bookstores. I wanted the food trucks and the rooftop views, to sprawl out on a blanket in central park, take in a big breath of filthy air and pretend that I belonged. I wanted real, raw emotion. I wanted to feel. To take it all in and shove it so deep into my pockets that I could carry it with me wherever I went.
This wasn’t grunge. It wasn't avant-garde. It wasn't vintage. But it was my first night in the city and I took what I could get.
