Last night, after a conversation well worth having, I decided to exit the subway early and walk home from 59th Street.
It was chilly, but after the bitter winds we’ve had lately, it didn’t feel too bad at all. Earlier in the day, walking home from work in the rain, I had perhaps the most New Yorky experience I’ve had so far. Though it was dark and cold and wet, I walked along Wall Street slowly, for my shoes were a little too loose, and took in the scene: hundreds of New Yorkers, some with umbrellas, others caught unprepared, rushing past each other while steam belched upward from the bowels of the city. Perhaps it was my high heels and nylons, or the people in their trench coats, or the longer-than-necessary looks I exchanged with strange men, but for a few moments, I felt like I was in a different decade, and I loved it.
Later, on the west side, the rain had stopped and the sky had partially cleared. It was late, after midnight, and fewer people than I’d expected were out on the street. I loped up Central Park West and got yelled at by a homeless man for doing something to his sunglasses — just what I did to them I couldn’t quite make out. To my right I saw what very little snow remained in Central Park, glowing under the lamps and the Christmas lights that enshroud Tavern on the Green. As I continued, my face tingling, it occurred to me that this is how I always thought December should feel.