When I was little, we were a family of nomads — traveling coast to coast, from sleepy town to bustling city. We left our mark in places like LA County and Flushing, Queens. I was seven when we finally settled in Northern New Jersey, where I spent most of my formative years. We always prided ourselves in being the more “cosmopolitan” types among our suburban peers. To them, the Bergen County born-and-bred, New York would only be known as the City. A monolithic creature emerging for the Hudson; a concrete mystery, best left undisturbed.
This spring I’m back for a brief sojourn from France. Free to lose myself in what has been, for the better part of the 21st century, the center of the universe. Despite its familiarity, New York can feel like something out of a Jules Verne novel. An island city? It should seem unimaginable. Almost as unimaginable as the fact that all the neighborhoods, in all the nooks and crannies in all of the five boroughs, could be united under a single address: NEW YORK, NY.
One thing is clear:
“New York is not a city. It’s a world.”
Long Island City