Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Veins of That City

With the right perspective, New York feels like an incredibly small city.

Not small in the way that Douglassville, Pennsylvania or Pobunk, (insert Midwestern state here) is small. Not small in the way that everyone gets their hair cut at the same place or you know the gossip of every neighbor you pass. But small in the this-is-the-modern-capital-of-the-world-but-I-can-see-it-all-from-this-balcony sort of way.

Now, by any common and reasonable standards, New York is a huge city. No one will argue that. Compared to any other city in America, there is no question of it's superior size and influence.

But what happens when you compare the city not to another city, but to its near-mythical reputation? Our collective conversation has built New York up to be at the epitome of culture and influence. It has told us that if you can make it here, than you can anywhere. It has given us an idea of its scale that is incomprehensible from afar. And there is truth to all of this.

So then why, as I sit on this balcony with its scale in view, does the city look so small?

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