On Sunday I did the single most touristy thing available to a person in New York, and I did it slowly, on purpose, with zero shame.
I took the F to York Street, wandered through DUMBO, got the obligatory photo of the Manhattan Bridge framed between the buildings on Washington Street like everyone else on earth, and then I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge toward City Hall.
A slow Sunday walk across the Brooklyn Bridge is the kind of thing New Yorkers pretend to be too cool for. We roll our eyes at the tourists clogging the pedestrian path. We complain about the cyclists. We act like we've transcended the obvious.
But I've lived here long enough to stop pretending. Some things are famous because they're genuinely worth it.
The September light does something specific up there. Softer than August, gold instead of white, the harbor glittering, the whole skyline showing off like it knows you're leaving soon and wants to be remembered well.
I took my time. I let the tourists overtake me. A family from somewhere asked me to take their photo and I took a good one, the whole city behind them, because someone once did that for me my first month here and I never forgot it.
A slow Sunday walk across the Brooklyn Bridge reminds me why I moved five thousand miles from home in the first place. On the hard days I forget. On days like this the city just hands it back to you, no charge.
Halfway across I stopped and looked at the water and thought about how the girl who landed at JFK with two suitcases and a fashion degree could not have imagined this would ever feel ordinary. And how a little bit of me hopes it never fully does.
I ended up at a coffee cart by City Hall, walked back into the noise of Manhattan, and took the 6 home tired and happy.
Be a tourist in your own city sometimes. It's the only way to stay in love with it.
Love,