Sundays in July have a particular texture. The city exhales. Half of Manhattan has fled to the Hamptons or wherever people with houses go, and the rest of us get the leftover quiet.
I took the 1 train up to Riverside Park with no plan, which for a person who color-codes her calendar is a genuine spiritual achievement. Just me, a tote bag, a book I wouldn't read, and the vague intention of sitting near water.
Riverside Park on a Sunday morning is criminally underrated. Everyone crowds Central Park like it's the only green space with a marketing budget, but up along the Hudson around 96th it's all leafy paths, old men playing chess, and a breeze that actually cooperates.
I found a bench facing New Jersey — a sentence I never imagined loving — and just watched the river move. A dad was teaching his kid to ride a bike badly. A dog fully committed to a bird it would never catch. Somebody down the path was playing old Kishore Kumar off a Bluetooth speaker, and I did a small double-take because you don't expect Roop Tera Mastana to drift across the Hudson on a random Sunday.
On my way back to the 1 train I passed a cart selling samosas — genuinely good ones, not the sad frozen kind — and ate two standing up like a civilized person absolutely would not. Chutney on my fingers. No regrets.
What I love about a slow Sunday on the 1 train up to Riverside Park is that it reminds me New York isn't only the grind. It's not only the rushing and the striving and the being twenty-four and terrified you're behind. Sometimes it's just a bench, a river, and a stranger's excellent music taste.
I didn't read a single page. I count that as productivity.
Go find your bench. The river will wait for you.
Love,