Nobody tells you how far north Manhattan goes until you ride the A train all the way to the end of your patience and then a little further.
I spent a whole afternoon in Fort Tryon Park this week and I don't think I've breathed that deeply since I moved here.
It started as an accident. I had the day off, I was restless in my apartment, and I remembered a coworker telling me about the gardens up by the Cloisters. So I got on the A at 14th Street and I rode. And rode. Past the parts of the city I know, into the parts I don't, until the train emptied out and it was just me and the people who actually live up there.
Fort Tryon Park in October is almost suspiciously beautiful. The Hudson down below, grey-blue and enormous. The Palisades on the far side turning gold and rust. There's a heather garden up there, actual heather, and old stone walls that make you forget you're in the same city as Times Square.
I sat on a bench for maybe two hours. I didn't scroll. I ate a samosa I'd smuggled in from a Jackson Heights trip and watched an old couple walk very slowly arm in arm.
There's a version of New York that is all hustle and noise and I love her, genuinely. But a whole afternoon in Fort Tryon Park reminded me there's another version. A quieter one at the top of the island where the city just stops trying to impress you and simply exists.
I took the A back down as the light went amber and the whole train car smelled like fallen leaves on someone's coat. A kid across from me fell asleep on his mom's shoulder. I almost did too.
Go north sometimes. The island is bigger and kinder than it lets on.
Love,