It is September and I am on the Staten Island Ferry. The skies are leaden and Liberty looks small, grey and sad this early morning. Then the rapier atop One World Trade Centre slashes at the cloud and the light struggles through the wound. And the city changes to a mottled autumn of steel and glass.
Later that morning I walk the High Line, on the West-Side running from Meatpacking to 34th. Long views down the avenues that run this was and that, coming and going. The fucking place grabs you, leans you back and kisses you passionately. You can’t help but fall in love with the City.
I head East for a quick lunch at Grand Central, below the main concourse and the rushing feet and the slow moving trains. A second lunch follows in Chinatown. Then the walk to Brooklyn (avoid getting clattered by the cyclists). A water taxi to Downtown, and the banks and traders and the queues at Ground Zero and the building works and the police presence.
Then to the hotel. To the roof. With a glass of wine and a view of the Empire States as the sun falls off to the left.