A New York City weekend is…
Being a duckling to whichever person in your group knows where they’re going, as they navigate the muddled streets.
Donning the plush hotel bathrobe and laying down on the crisp sheets, resisting the urge to fall into your dreams.
Letting your nose guide you towards dinner.
Making your wine dance in its glass, then savoring its scent, then pretending you know what you’re talking about.
Blushing at your mom drinking a Kiwi Panty Remover, then tasting its sweet splendor for yourself.
Talking quickly but chewing slowly, because you want to relish just how perfect this steak is.
Squelching the urge to buy a new pair of shoes. BECAUSE THERE ARE SO. MANY. SHOES.
Stupidly grinning at every dog. BECAUSE THERE ARE SO. MANY. DOGS.
Bumping into people without explanation or apology.
Using your cup of coffee as an accessory.
Seeing bits of yourself in one of the characters on Broadway. In my case, Catherine Sloper.
Carefully choosing which brownstone you’d live in based on how lovely it looks amongst the trees.
Wistfully gazing through tall windows at the people living or slaving away at their dreams.
Eyes darting back and forth, not sure which building to gawk at or person to engage with a smile.
Gently stepping on hallowed ground, marveling at how such magnificence can conjure images of such horror.
Pretending you’re gliding on the turbulent subway.
Contemplating how so much energy exists in such a small space.
Sighing with satisfaction as you return home, ready to get back to normal, but ready to return to New York, too.