Stepping it out in Manhattan, I am reminded at once how the storms look different in the city, all narrow canyons of footsteps cutting through the sidewalk fortifications, all slushy, brown rivers and impatient walkers, all grit in the face of adversity. A man tries to unbury his car on Houston, a monumental task three days in the making, at least.
The hardware stores are all out of shovels. My car will have to wait until the spring.
I make my way to the writing bar, and the bartender beams at my arrival. No one else has made it out yet. We spend an hour weaving around the stories of the last week, a routine that took years to build and which you never want to let go. This is how you build New York. Borrow a cup of sugar. Help an old lady across the street. Build a living room in a bar down the street. This is how you build yourself into New York.
You've done so many things wrong,
it feels like,
But at least this one time you did something
right.
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