…I’m going home tomorrow.
Let’s see. 2 weeks. Ventured out into 5 1/2 (American) cities, stayed in 8 different places/homes (inhabited, in total, by 17 people; thank you everyone, for your hospitality), took 7 flights (8 tomorrow) and 2 multi-hour train rides (not to mention subways or car rides or whatever), and ate a few too many nasty, but kosher, power bars along the way.
The zipper seems to have busted on my suitcase. Keep me in your prayers that it stays intact until I get to the other side. Looks like my backpack is on its last legs as well.
Besides a few good people and some great art, I’m still not sure that I get the point of New York City. Truly. And yeah, I did live here a couple of times and everything.
OK. Packing and sleep.
Does there need to be a point to NYC? But that reminds me of Robert Pirsig’s book Lila (p. 244), where he comments, “This was manic New York, now. Later would come depressive New York.”
New York City is its own point. I’m just saying.