I feel a terrifying exhilaration from being up so high. Below me I see lights that fade into the fog and mountains with rivers of clouds running between them. And then I arrive.
The streets are narrow, filled with crowds and taxis, and people spill from the sidewalk whenever they feel like it, eliciting a vehement reaction from the drivers, meaning the angry sound of a car horn.
The air is hazy and smells like smoke, but not necessarily in a bad way. I kind of like it. Even the ever-present smell of coffee and cigarette smoke doesn't seem so bad after a while.
There are so many people hurriedly going about their lives in their own way and they seem both lost and full of purpose at the same time. Many of the people here are well-dressed, most talking on cell phones or listening to whatever is playing through their headphones as they make their way to some destination unknown to me. I think I could fit into this orderly kind of chaos. This is somewhere I could eventually come to call home if I wanted to.
There's a Starbucks on every street and they sell coffee-free products, something I didn't know until recently. Despite my desire to rebel, I still don't drink coffee, but I don't mind the smell anymore now that I've spent so much time in a coffee shop. A guy at Starbucks called me 'sweetheart.' Even though I'd never met him before, he chose those words as his parting ones and I remember it.
The streets are narrow, filled with crowds and taxis, and people spill from the sidewalk whenever they feel like it, eliciting a vehement reaction from the drivers, meaning the angry sound of a car horn.
The air is hazy and smells like smoke, but not necessarily in a bad way. I kind of like it. Even the ever-present smell of coffee and cigarette smoke doesn't seem so bad after a while.
There are so many people hurriedly going about their lives in their own way and they seem both lost and full of purpose at the same time. Many of the people here are well-dressed, most talking on cell phones or listening to whatever is playing through their headphones as they make their way to some destination unknown to me. I think I could fit into this orderly kind of chaos. This is somewhere I could eventually come to call home if I wanted to.
There's a Starbucks on every street and they sell coffee-free products, something I didn't know until recently. Despite my desire to rebel, I still don't drink coffee, but I don't mind the smell anymore now that I've spent so much time in a coffee shop. A guy at Starbucks called me 'sweetheart.' Even though I'd never met him before, he chose those words as his parting ones and I remember it.
I can't sleep. Even the nights feel like days. Although I'm exhausted, at one in the morning my priorities are still with people before sleep.
I have a map to tell me where to go. I have to walk everywhere, but that only makes my destination more worthwhile. I want to do it all, but there's never enough time to see everything, so I'll just have to come back someday. Especially for the cathedrals and chocolate shops.
I'm going down memory lane without meaning to. I'd call it nostalgia, but by definition that requires a wistful desire or sentimental yearning to return to the past and I possess neither of those. My childhood dreams have been crushed because what I thought was true turned out to be a lie.
I can't stop watching the woman sitting across from me. I've never met her, and I don't know anything about her except that she has a story. I wish I knew her story. Everyone has their own story and I wish I could know them all, but there are billions of stories I will never know. I hope someone knows them.
No matter where I am, the wind makes me feel alive and I start to think. First about space. It's so big and no matter how hard we try, we will never unlock the secrets of the universe because it's just too big. But I try not to think about it because thinking about it only makes it bigger.
Then my thoughts turn to art. Not many people think about art in the same way I do. But art is what you want it to be. Not a talent people are born with. Not what someone is willing to pay for it. Art is what you make it, the spirit you give it, what it means to you. That's why I keep going off by myself. I'm trying to find something I can't really name, but I know I'll miss it if I'm with the group. I've almost missed it already.
My friends told me I'm a natural anyway. That I could live here and be able to handle it because I can find my way around. It could be home. I'm coming to enjoy the clicky sound my high heels make on cement, even though they pinch my feet, and the smell of the bookstore on the corner makes me feel right at home. The smell of lemon oil reminds me of home even more.
I've been watching someone who reminds me of a dear friend. In his hair, his mannerisms, his voice, his smile, I couldn't stop thinking about my friend for the rest of the night. Afterward, I felt tears of joy and sadness at the same time.
I see the world crying for what happened over twelve years ago and have discovered the universal sign of shock and denial, but I still stop to recognize the beauty in the sight of rain collecting on and sliding off her umbrella, and take comfort in the sound of the raindrops hitting the top of mine. I'm learning that it's so much harder to fix broken things than to prevent them from breaking in the first place.
When it's time for me to leave, saying goodbye isn't as hard as I thought it would be. One last visit to Starbucks and I get the feeling I'll be back again. I hope so.
New York isn't Paris, but it's close enough for now.
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