I have been to a few cities where, after arriving, I realized that my stay would be too long. Four days in Dublin felt like a cold to the bones month, three days in Athens felt like a restless, comfortless week inside a cage. On the other hand were cities like Split, Lubljana, Istanbul, Warsaw, and especially Barcelona; places a traveler might wish they were from just so they could call home a place where time feels like an illusion, an invention of one’s unspoken eye.
Ten days in New York City is longer than I’ve stayed most places. I thought I understood why people loved it here before, but now New York seems more like a really generous, interesting family that it pays to stay in the good graces of. The family home is always open to those who show the proper respect, and there are treasure packed catacombs beneath the main house, catacombs more extensive than the imagined halls of George R. R. Martin’s King’s Landing.
I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Stacey, and I know that time with her is the very best that New York has to offer me. Yesterday I saw some of the greatest known treasures of this world, and I got to see first hand some of the opulence that princes would kill their fathers for. At The Cloisters they have the salvaged remnants of the fortunes of hundreds, perhaps thousands of successful people on display; people who had names and titles once. And I hope, for their sake, that they had true friends aswell.
albaniacalling 