Two weeks ago after my first ever acupuncture appointment…
Aside: the location of which is on the 14th floor of a nondescript building in the Flatiron district with a view of what appears to be Converse offices across the street, exhibited by silver aptly-fonted letters mounted on the wall behind a large receptionist desk; I half expected the desk to be flanked by two high top-shaped planters.
… I opted to walk the long way home via Bryant Park to the East 53rd Street E train. It’s finally cold outside. This explains my zest.
Bryant Park’s seasonal shopping booths and ice skating rink were fully open and operational, Louis Armstrong was loudly drenching the crowd. Yes, I realize it’s a scene fit for a drugstore snow globe, but oh how I love that exact New York.
Cliche? Sure. Pance = sucker? Of course.
Perhaps it was my freshly needled pressure points, but I found myself stopping and staring and suddenly working on my one good tear. There is nothing, nothing that can compare to a chilly holiday-y NYC. Walking around just feels different, sparklier, happier, optimistic. Things are gonna be okay because that thing is in the air again. If I could only find a way to bottle it I’d be rich. Maybe get some Ball Jars, seal ’em up, label them with “Holiday New York City: Best if Used By December 25.”
Then I thought – as I do at least once every year – this Christmas might be my last here. And it made me sore afraid. All in all, the thought of breaking up with the city breaks my heart.
My dad recently said to me, “You CAN’T leave New York! It’s in you.” Disclaimer: his motives may be a little skewed toward a free-place-stay-during-baseball-season, but he still has point. It *is* in me. I have breathed in the jarred preserves and I’m gonna need a lot of needles to deflate.
Pictured: Bryant Park during my first Christmas in NYC (2003), before they decided to decorate it with shopping booths, an ice skating rink and tourists.