I imagine that my decision to live in this place has to do with the same things that dictate other people’s reasons for living where they do: family and jobs and a general appreciation for the good that outweighs the bad. And like anywhere, there are moments in New York that feel so quintessentially belonging to this particular place that their existence makes my pulse quicken, as if to say, “This is it. This is why.”
Two weeks ago, we were walking to dinner at my sister’s in the East Village when we looked up to see a flight of bright white pigeons soaring against a perfectly blue sky. The birds turned and twisted while on top a roof somewhere an invisible puppeteer directed them in their synchronized dance.
We watched the pigeons for ten minutes, necks thrown back. James took these shots while I stared at the sky, trying in vain to get Faye to notice her good luck. Magic happens whether we stop to pay attention to it or not, so here’s a reminder for wherever you are: look up.