I rode the 1 train all the way to the top of Manhattan on Sunday, past every stop I usually ignore, until it ended at 207th Street and there was simply no more island left.
I'd been meaning to see Inwood Hill Park for two years. Two years. That's the New York disease, treating your own city like it'll wait forever.
Inwood Hill Park is the last natural forest in Manhattan. Actual old trees. Actual quiet. You walk up from the 1 train and within ten minutes the city noise just falls off the edge of your ears and there are salt marshes and hawks and a hill that makes your calves file a complaint.
There's a spot where you can look across the water to the Bronx and Jersey, and it feels less like New York and more like the edge of some story you haven't read yet.
I sat on a rock and ate a samosa I'd smuggled from a spot near my apartment, still warm in its foil, and felt like the richest person alive.
What gets me about Inwood Hill Park is how empty it is. I passed maybe fifteen people the whole afternoon. In a city of eight million, you can ride one train to the end and be almost alone with a forest that predates the entire concept of Manhattan real estate.
My Ahmedabad self, the girl who grew up where nature had to be planned and fenced, would not believe a wild place like this exists a train ride away from Times Square.
I stayed until the light went gold. Watched a man teach his daughter to skip stones. Watched a hawk do absolutely nothing impressive for twenty minutes, which somehow felt profound.
The 1 train ride back was long and I didn't mind. I'd finally been to the quiet end of Manhattan.
Go north sometimes. The island keeps its best secret for the very last stop.
Love,