You don’t have to like fruit to love the big apple.

[Wine and a break to charge my phone at Cafe Minerva in the West Village, the place where dreams are made.]

[On the move: packed up and heading from Brooklyn to Manhattan on the East River Ferry.]

[Back to Brooklyn! Oyster happy hour at Maison Premier, a touch of paradise in Williamsburg.]

[Falling in love on Jane Street.]

[Solo lunch at Westville with Rob’s backpack sitting shotgun, between two rendezvous; or, where I sat when I saw Paul Rudd and shamelessly stared into his eyes.]

 [High points in NYC. Literally, and figuratively. “Are you good at taking selfies?” “Yeah, I’m ok at selfies.” “Ok, then you take it.” I love you, JRubes don’t hate me for posting this! Up atop TED HQ, gazing upon rooftop gardens you and I will never afford, and that’s a fact.]

[Also, no fancy purses on this chick. I wore Rob’s high school backpack all over NYC for days, and frankly liked swinging a book bag off my shoulder while ordering wine from the waiter at Greenwich Hotel after lying we were guests to sneak in better than I would a Vuitton satchel.]

I’m finally wrapping up and posting this the night before a buttcrack of dawn flight back to NYC for another wedding. Let’s see if being on the cusp of going back will aid in some editorial efforts. Because when I first wrote it, I was going lots of different directions and getting nowhere fast.

Just as I was reaching the apex of the cold I’d acquired while borough-skipping & couch-hopping around NYC (eff anyone who can afford hotel rooms there, btw, and that’s obvious), I was catching up on sleep after an epic 6 days of basically non-stop fun (minus a few horrific & chaotic work deadlines) curled up on the couch leaking nasal misery while echoing around (mentally and audibly) in square footage that frankly would, itself, probably cost more than an entire Richmond block x3, was this cute little pile of bricks transplanted to NYC.

And I found myself making general comparisons like that for days after coming home: savoring riding in my own car with the windows down; trees, trees, tress; a cost of living that’s afforded me a Gen-Y version of bohemia yuppyness; and, the general absence of a constant opportunity to compare your situation with the unimaginable prosperity of others in close proximity to you. What they can buy, where they can shop, where they can live, what they drive, where they can eat. All in the confines of this place that seems hell-bent on not being the easy option.

[Chillin in the bathroom at a sweet new pizza joint in Williamsburg. Truffle and arugula pizza. Rob, I’m sorry you missed this.]

More West Village, where you can sprinkle my ashes and fling my vinyl record collection frisbee-style against picturesque building facades when I die:

If American cities were car dealers, New York City would be the one ironically posting the highest prices—“Highest prices in town! Yeah, you heard me. Think you can afford this whip? I’ll be happy to laugh you off the lot,”—and airing commercials of himself wheeling around Monte Carlo, announcing “This? This shit ain’t even FO SALE,” while flicking off the camera. He’d only ever accept bids well above the retail price. Because he can.

And people would drive for miles to shop at this dude’s lot.

Because I know there’s no place like it, but generally the people I know who love NYC love it because they’ve settled into some sort of normalcy and happiness and accomplishment—quite reminiscent of that brand of happiness seen all across this fair country—with regular haunts and friends and a routine, hopefully with a view. So you kind of pause, and wonder why.

I’d thought about something I’d said to Rob before heading up there, and felt a general and shameful paradigm shift from that moment to my current: “It’s like my favorite hat. I don’t take my favorite hat off my head and wave it around and tell everyone else what they’re missing out on by not owning this hat, right? People from New York secretly want you feel like you’re missing out on something they’ve got.”

Clearly, that was all inside my own head… or on top; whichever the case may be.

[Speaking of heads, this is my view at Drybar on E 34th Street. It was the most decadent, fabulous experience, and the best $50 I’ve ever spent. Having your hair washed by an incredibly sweet woman, with a glass of champagne in your hand, then blown out on a zero humidity NYC fall day after not washing your hair for 6 days and living on the kindness of strangers’ aerobeds… it was divine. I felt unstoppable. And I ran into someone I know getting her hair did, too; so, like, don’t call me provincial.]

N.B. Passion looks a lot like persuasion. Lest I forget the medium from which I’m currently speaking.

So I was reviewing a few smug Instagrams of myself and Eli boasting my happy return, blowing my nose with resigned told-myselves-so’s, when I caught this interview of James Spader on Jimmy Fallon, and paused again.

Jimmy: “You used to live in New York, right?”

James: “I did, I lived here off an on through the years but, really, I lived here for quite a long time when I first left home. And, I… it was the first. And I sort of got Shang-Hai’d to Los Angeles for awhile. It started out as work, and then turned into houses, and children, and so on… and I was there for a couple of decades. But I’d always come back here for work and such, and I missed it so much.

And the thing that really struck me—every time I’d fly into New York, you know—it was the first place that I chose to live. You know, you don’t choose where you’re born and raised. But it was the first place that I really chose to move to. And then other things take you other places […] and you end up living in some of those places. And yet, that feeling you get, for years—every time I’d fly into New York, even when I invade a home elsewhere—I’d fly into Kennedy, or LaGuardia, or something—and I’d fly in over the city, and then driving in the taxi, you know, into the city… I’d feel like I was coming home again.

Twenty years I lived into Los Angeles, and I’d fly in, and… I never had that feeling like I was going home.

And now I’m home.”

I know that feeling.

And I’m not sure there’s anywhere else on earth that can collectively contain the ability to trigger this exact sentiment in as many people as can New York City. [Chitown, it’s cool; you’ve got my heart, kid.] But that’s kind of amazing, right? And just because it’s not me doesn’t mean I can’t marvel at the humanity of it all.

Then it dawned on me.

Who cares? Who cares if I want to live there or not? Who cares that I can’t afford it? Who cares if I, myself, love New York more than I love my own town? I’m pretty sure New York doesn’t give a shit about a popularity contest.

[View from Williamsburg, my home base for a few days. I was lucky enough to spend an extended amount of time with Rob’s best friend minus Rob, which offered me a unique perspective on why this guy is such an important part of Rob’s life.]

Hey-yyy:

[Good times at the Joie store in the Meatpacking District. They were all sold out of the maxi dress, and I was hell-bent on florals and blowing my month’s budget, so this beautiful blouse came home with me.]

Anyway, it’s the people that do live there, that do love it, that I love. It’s the people that call New York home that make me love it. If I’m going to get super sappy: in a roundabout way, I don’t heart New York, I heart New Yorkers. I’m pretty sure I’ve always known that was the case, but meeting one guy during my last few minutes in the city proved it so.

[No Rob = selfies. This was what I kicked around in on my last day: Current/Elliot Freshman tee, The Vintage Shoe co boots, AG green sateen jeans, and a vintage belt.]

I got to spend a decent amount of time with a fair lady who really turned my whole attitude on its ear. She’s always been kind of like the Unsinkable Molly Brown to me, just foxier, and she sort of absorbed me into her routine and let me watch her in action, which—I can attest—is all anyone visiting New York really wants out of the experience.

[I fell asleep looking at this a couple of nights. Not too shabby.]

New Yorkers always say we visitors walk too slow, and mostly I try to keep a steady clip, but over in Brooklyn I can’t help but linger. And it was in my last linger of the trip, on KC’s stoop in Brooklyn post-dog walk, that the wax was poured and stamped on my love letter to NYC. Because I was stalling on calling a cab and in doing so, I met Vinny.

“Oh, perfect; you’re going to get to meet Vinny,” KC said, and he walked up and grabbed the dog by the cheeks in this effusive, loving grip, and suddenly I wasn’t in New York anymore. I was Anywhere.

V was it. The real deal. And he had such a warmth and openness about him that I felt, for the first time since I’d been there, like New York was letting me in. We talked, and we laughed, and I wanted to stick around with him and KC for the next few months.

I gotta cut myself off here, because no honest tough guy like Vinny would be able to stomach a wistful Southerner talking about his pony tail. So, yeah. That’s the story. Intrepid New Yorkers are the story; the city is just the attention-vying backdrop.

See you tomorrow, lights and sounds.

C.