My New York

The New York I’ve fallen in love with is a city tourists will never see. My New York isn’t an 8.4 million-person metropolis; it’s the compilation of many smaller moments.

My New York isn’t the top of the Empire State Building. It’s the roof of a Meat Packing District apartment building. It’s the views of a church roof & steeple, of a quiet and secluded courtyard below, and the top of the Standard Hotel, a project I know so well.

My New York isn’t a posh midtown Zagat-rated restaurant; it’s the courtyard of a cheap pizza joint in NoHo. It’s getting outside with friends, watching the sky fade from blue, to pink, to dark. One of the guys who works there brings out another pie and switches on the string lights for us. Mushroom pizza, cheap pitchers of Bud, and creamy homemade berry sorbet hit the spot.

My New York isn’t a taxicab zipping down Fifth Avenue; it’s the beep of the subway turnstile. It’s the cursive “moustache” scrawled across Zac Efron’s upper lip. It’s the rhythmic “click-clack, click-clack….click-clack….click-clack” as a train rolls into the station, and the squeal of the best three notes from Mika’s “We Are Golden” as the cars pull out.

My New York is truly mine, and no one else’s.