The first time I went to New York I was thirty years old. And I was profoundly, foolishly, disillusioned to discover that it did not look like the movies. So many grubby little nondescript street-level storefronts, so much that was utilitarian and didn't care how it looked. Over a fun but disorienting weekend I came to the conclusion that New York City wasn't beautiful. Seven years later on, I now look back on my younger self with the pitying tenderness we reserve for the colossally misinformed. Of course there is beauty there. So much beauty--indeed, so much everything--that it's pretty much ridiculous. Yet another reiteration of the paramount lesson of my entire adult life thus far: to try and try and try again to stop seeing what you think should be there and start seeing what actually is. The rewards of doing so being virtually infinite. So here are my Instagrams of just a small fraction of the moments and places of beauty I saw in New York at the age of thirty-seven. (If you want to skip directly to the celebrity sighting--and it's a good one!--that image is all the way at the bottom of the post).
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