A grown-up woman should never fall so easily

I moved to New York for the summer yesterday. 

Ah, love at first sight. I first felt it on a train. There were six of us sharing a sleep car, and I had the bottom bunk. Instead of sleeping, I listened to the wheels on the track, and the miles flying away beneath me. Clank. Clank. Clank. Clank. I could feel my heart beating against the mattress. Where are we now? And now? And now? I finally snuck out. Pressed against the window in the tight hallway, I saw the dark shapes of hills, the very edge of the black sky, and a world of mirror-lakes and unstoppable horizons so impossible I half-thought I had drifted off in my narrow bed. Switzerland at night. My first passionate love.

The train made a particularly enthusiastic clang just as my heart got snagged on the feeling, and I fell over. Into my history teacher's door. He was accompanying our graduating class on our senior trip. He was also not happy to see me at 3:28 a.m.

Not the point.

The point is, I arrived in New York yesterday after a missed flight and a delayed connection into a torrential June storm, and fell in love again. There is nothing else in the world like this city. Even when a newly arrived girl takes the right subway but then a wrong left turn and ends up lost for four hours. It's still filled with a special kind of exhilaration. 

I think if this city was a person, that would be the equivalent of letting them drive around lost for four hours and never making them stop to ask for directions, and then when they finally get you home, letting them have the last piece of cheesecake.

Of course, it isn't a person, and I'm the one who got me lost, which means all the cheesecake goes to me.

Good deal.

P.S. Switzerland: I am not cheating on you, darling. I promise I can love you both.