*this does not count as a top 10 moment*
A best good friend of mine once pontificated that the reason New York is bustlingly frenetic and FULL all the time is because the spaces we live in are so claustrophobic that we constantly escape our homes to enjoy long, breathy stretches on the streets. Still, to have even an itsybitsy, teenytiny piece of space to call your own in this city is arguably the coolest thing ever.
“You could live in New York, I had begun to realize, without ever having to open your mouth except for life’s necessities. You could even be invisible, not because you were hidden by the crowd but because the crowd was blind to your being a part of it. And unless you were in a park… you could not sit down. You had to keep walking until you got home, and if your home was like mine – two rooms in which I could not seem to find a place for myself – you had to go out and start walking all over again. You had to walk and walk and walk until exhaustion set in, and once it did, home – the apartment that faced the airshaft or the basement flat that seemed as dark as a coalhole or the studio that was the size of a closet and maybe even had been – looked good.” – Mary Cantwell, “Manhattan, When I Was Young”
My first apartment in the borough of Manhattan (2004-2007):