Transparent

        The beauty is meant to be found along the glistening edges of scrapers that longingly reach for the sky. It is meant to be found in the overwhelming display of success; the billboard portraying what we all should desire and the balconies promising a height that we can all one day reach, if we climb high enough.  I have often heard that New York will carry you away, that you will undoubtedly fall in love. For some I would imagine it’s a romance filled with infatuation. A whirlwind of instant gratification and open acceptance. For others, perhaps, the love comes softly. A daily courtship with sunny parks, rustically charming street vendors and an eventual appreciation for the American dream fulfilled.

My first breath of New York was confidant and invigorating. As we emerged from the tunnel, my focus quickly shifted to my GPS. I was determined to conquer the inner city traffic and make it safely to the strategically chosen parking garage.  I entered the garage cautiously and we were promptly greeted by a pristinely uniformed security guard. He had kind eyes and graciously informed us that we had to complete a security inspection before parking in the garage.  His presence spoke of an age gone by; an era of decorum and etiquette long forgotten by our generation. Almost immediately a valet greeted us with a reassuring nod and took our keys.

Feeling surprisingly free and adventurous, Jake and I scurried our way through the underground maze, seeking the light of New York’s brisk streets. We had officially joined the rat race. Our turns tunnelled us to an indoor shopping center that was seemingly made entirely of marble. Two primpy pups lead by a lady of elegance and age caught my eye as I inhaled the bold fragrances of designer perfumes and fresh leather. Between the security guard, the valet, the live classical music in the distance and the borage of pricey billboard adds, I admittedly felt right at home.

Comfort was not the emotion I was expecting to encounter. I had spent hours the night before accounting for every possibility: two bottles of hand sanitizer, sanitizing wipes, bottled water, snacks, sunscreen, flat shoes, a change of clothes and plenty of space on my SD card to safely document our day from inside my bubble. I had thoroughly crafted my ALON® transparent armor to conquer the city untouched. To think…my defenses were so easily disarmed with the seduction of posh luxury.

The streets of the city were brisk yet bathed in sunbeams. We were headed to Time Square, and as almost every other pedestrian crowding the construction-strewn sidewalks, we were in a hurry. I watched a girl in front of us as she precisely took her determined steps. The length of her skirt made me feel cold for her, but the height  of her black pleather boots made me feel something entirely different. My thoughts were rudely interrupted by a brash voice, “Too old” he trailed after her. “Well where does he get off making a judge-“……"Been through too much”. My observations once again cut short by the shrewd calls. I defiantly looked up, my face colored with protest, only to be pierced with his deafening stare.

Jake hadn’t missed a step, and as he hurried me through an intersection I stared at my feet… one peddling in front of the other in perfect rhythm with his.  Been through too much?  I suppose I had experienced a lot for my age, but no more than the next pedestrian. But is that the presence that I carried? A whirlwind of analytical questions flooded my mind only to instantly dissolve as I looked up at my husband’s excited, and beaming, smile. We had arrived.

Time square was crowded and as we waited in line to buy Broadway tickets we flippantly played our newfound favorite “People-watching Superlatives”. Trying to be as honest and un-judgmental as possible, we asked each other who would be the first shop lift or who just bought a corvette without telling their spouse. Much like the rest of our day, the line moved seamlessly and quickly. Lunch at Junior’s in Grand Central was relaxing and the conversations with our table co-inhabitors were rather enjoyable. Central park was refreshing and Cinderella on Broadway was magical, to say the least. The subway, however, is where I found the heartbeat of New York. The subway is where I fell in love.

As I stood on the grungely-ornate platform I buried my nose into the back of my husband’s jacket. I watched the trains as they pulsated through the veins of the subway tunnels. After close speculation of our NY Subway Lite app on my iPhone, we boarded along with the other commuters; doing our best to not look like tourists, we found our seats. It was the face of the young Asian toddler swaddled in her carrier, the wrinkles along the eyes of a sharply dressed young lady, the glint of concern on the face of the hipster across from us who was attempting to drown out reality with his Beats by Dre headphones... and that was the moment.

New York is not sky-scrapers, taxi-cabs and Central Park. It’s not wafts of diversely cultural street vendors and vivid electronic billboards.

New York is the callous on the construction workers’ hands, the uninhibited laughter of a mother and daughter as they skip out of the theatre adorned with Cinderella’s tiara. New York is the fulfilling sigh of an over-stuffed man after devouring an over-stuffed sandwich, the fleshy beginnings of a blister on a high-heeled ankle. It is the optimistic, yet helpful, smile on the lips of an eager salesman and the lost, empty stare of the young man behind the glass at a Broadway ticket booth.

New York is every dream, desire, pain, loss, heartache, hope and happiness;

 and I love New York.