It's freaking cold, probably only 50 degrees or so, but for someone who doesn't own a winter coat, that's cold enough. I'm bundled up, wearing layers, sweaters, gloves, hat, scarf. I'm walking around the East Village. I'm taking it in. Running a finger along the edge of this city.
Over drinks, in passing conversations I question. I'm gathering research, experiences, impressions. Tapping out the studs while admiring the wallpaper. Some tell me I'll never crack the essence of NYC. The vibe, the experience. But I'm not shooting to understand all in 7 days; just identify the pathways to unfolding, walk a bit down them, caressing with my presence, awareness, observations. Identify the anchor points.
I learn, see, understand as I probe. Then it's enough and I go back into the city. Walking her streets, dark, gritty, dirty streets. Finding my way (easily) through mazes and tunnels. Trains. Watching people. As individuals. As mass. I'm them too. The wind blows (cold), chill with Autumn. I lift my head, open my nostrils and deeply inhale. Taking the cold scent into my lungs. The city gives me what I am looking for, embracing me back.
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