Everyone sees a city a bit differently. When I see a stranger's captured interpretation of my own city, I am often struck by how a fresh lens can transform the way I look at the world around me. The streets I see every day, the bits of beauty I take for granted, and the quaint shops I forget to visit.
Exactly one week ago I was returning from a weekend in the beautiful, iconic city of New York. I had given substantial thought to how I would write about my visit. How I would share it with you, my readers, and what my perspective could offer that thousands of perfectly curated Instagram feeds do not already deliver every day.
I could tell you about every thing I ate and put on my food critic for a bit, or I could talk about the way the streets buzzed with ambition, hope, and wonderment. But, you already know these things, or you could know them if you looked at a thousand other sites.
I am certainly not knocking restaurant reviews or wanderlust-provoking travel writing. In fact, I took advantage of my fair share of such resources pre-trip and I would be delighted to do both on this space one day. However, when I thought about New York, I realized that what I really wanted to give you was my New York. The way I saw it, breathed it, and lived it.
I spent a Sunday afternoon in Washington Square Park, admiring these winsome daisies as they peaked their heads through the shade of the trees to soak in the beaming rays of warmth of which I was far less appreciative.
I sat on a bench. A bench that had hosted thousands of bodies before me, and I listened to a group of men, each one unique from the other, playing old school jazz in perfect synchronicity.
I saw a piano sitting in the middle of the park. At first, my logical, inquisitive brain tried to speculate at the amount of labor required to bring a piano into a public park, but after a few idle minutes I decided that beauty deserves no such questioning. I buried my questions, and perked up my ears to hear the music flowing from the instrument.
These moments were all so precious and I knew that in a week or less I would be longing to savor each one and relive them all again.
My father though, was already a bit tired of being photographed by 9am.
These two people are my parents and they joined me on my trek through the bustling city. I happen to think they are pretty great travel companions, and my father is a far better navigator than I will ever be. I'm still trying to get East and West straight.
My mother, well she is a lovely person who will happily help you sneak pictures of the Italian waiter with the awesome mustache, if you are so inclined.
There are so many things I could have said and so many things I have left to say, but for now, this was my New York. Thank you for letting me share it with you.
P.S. The very best pizza in the whole entire world can be found at Luzzo's - 213 1st Avenue, New York, NY 10003. You know I had to mention food at least once. That's it, I'm out.