New York City
There is something magic about this town. Always has been.
And we felt it the moment our Black Car emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel and rolled through the afternoon traffic in Midtown Manhattan.
Nuevo del Yorko.
The Big Apple.
I’ve been here before, several times.
Shed tears at The Pile when workmen were still excavating the remains of the World Trade Center. Left prayers at a simple law enforcement shrine that overlooks The Hole that is now where the twin towers once stood. Watched live shots for network TV being set up and choreographed from Times Square. Caught the behind-the-scenes scenes of fashion shows in the spring time, and walked the narrow sidewalks in Tribeca where independent Jazz label reps set up shop, promoted new talent, and warehoused their product in 800-square foot apartment offices.
My bride has never been to New York.
She’s been scraping her head on the ceiling for a week, planning and packing for this trip. I caught the excitement, again, this afternoon, snatching a view of the Chrysler Tower’s silver arches gleaming in the afternoon sunlight through the roof of our car.
Tonight, I open the window of our suite of the Waldorf Astoria, and New York’s essence storms into the room on a breeze filled with the smell of cooking grease, the distant echoes of cabbies honking their way through traffic, and the gleaming lights of the buildings at night.
Across the alley, a man sits on his patio as the evening deepens, 12-floors above the street, drinking in what little patch of sky that can be seen from between the buildings.
This is New York.