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No distance.
It's almost impossible to be alone in New York City. You can't do it in the parks, with people around and buildings looming, and I certainly can't do it in my apartment, where helicopters fly by every twenty minutes around lunchtime. I've only managed it a handful of times, usually in the New York Botanical Garden way out in the Bronx, or in the secret turnaround station under City Hall.
It's hard. But you can get close to it on New Year's Day.
Today had enough people inside or asleep or away from the parts of the city I went out in that I had little enough company to remind myself I wasn't with any of them. A crowded sidewalk is a way to focus on a goal; two people on the other side of the street is a reminder of urban isolation. The air was cold, the sky a sharp blue. It was empty enough I could hear birds calling out on Broadway as I walked along.
There's going to be more than enough action and franticness that New York City is so well known for soon enough. But to start a new year, a moment of quiet is exactly right.
It's hard. But you can get close to it on New Year's Day.
Today had enough people inside or asleep or away from the parts of the city I went out in that I had little enough company to remind myself I wasn't with any of them. A crowded sidewalk is a way to focus on a goal; two people on the other side of the street is a reminder of urban isolation. The air was cold, the sky a sharp blue. It was empty enough I could hear birds calling out on Broadway as I walked along.
There's going to be more than enough action and franticness that New York City is so well known for soon enough. But to start a new year, a moment of quiet is exactly right.