A Year In New York

My first night in New York and I hunker down at a Starbucks on Broadway and West 105th like a tourist in Paris who seeks refuge at McDonalds. The wi-fi made me do it. My apartment doesn’t have wi-fi yet, or phone or cable, and UPS delivered both of my lamps pre-broken. Say what you will about Starbucks, but its lightbulbs work splendidly.

I have to my name a set of keys, a plastic fork, a bar of soap and a head crowded with the day’s images: a woman I passed at JFK Airport waiting for a flight to St Paul, crying behind her enormous sunglasses; heading into a hazy Manhattan at rush hour over the muscular Triborough Bridge; enjoying mushroom enchiladas at a restaurant called Cilantro on First Avenue, watching more pairs of $500 jeans walk by than I have ever seen in one place.

The night outside is so warm I’m sweating through the jeans ($30, thank you) that were perfectly comfortable sixteen hours ago and 3,000 miles away in San Francisco. Welcome to New York.