The blind fold created my the impenetrable darkness of the night began to loosen. After sitting in the predawn for some time, I began to feel a different awareness. As rays of sunlight emitted by the arriving ochre horizon invaded my apartment, I began to feel orange. The blinding light winked at me and cast indistinct shadows on the supple bed on which I lay. As the sun ascended, it hurled tender aureate spears that caressed me sensuously and enveloped me in their augmenting ocean of warmth. The dull room in which I’d slumbered became lucid. The chamber became the up beat New York apartment in which I had settled in over two months ago. Vibrant; animated; buoyant; intimate.

My eyes drank in the intricate pulchritude the stretched in every direction; my eyes became wide as saucers. I sauntered over to the colossal glass window and embraced the feel of crimson feather light silk shaggy carpet that yielded to my maliciously curled toes. I observed the sophisticated skyscrapers lined up audaciously against the tasteful horizon. Before I knew it, the sun’s morning glow glared throughout the sky, outlining the the monstrous constructions and silhouetting the birds chirping and calling out to each other.

I loved New York with an undying passion. The city was a place of great allure which (like a powerful siren) called people of all walks of life. Conservatives rubbed shoulders with bohemians. A spectrum of skin colours and a wave of multicoloured coats beguiled me. It was here that great empires were made and businesses thrived. To think I got a tenth story view of this prodigious metropolis.

I padded over to my massive walk in closet. I drew in an ample amount of air, acknowledging the delicious scent of Prada that lingered in the air. The delectable fragrance let out a whispering scream, enticing me to breath deeper. I chose a a pair of pressed natural linen slacks and a sleeveless poplin shell in a soft grey that matched my eyes. I pulled my lengthy sable hair into a slick ponytail, then made my face. I left ready to tackle my tiring daily tasks. Just call me black belt Barbie.

Stepping out from under the modern glass entrance. Splendour. I enjoyed the relative tranquillity of my tree-lined street before I reached the bustle and flow of traffic. I was still wary of the subway and had trouble hailing cabs so I walked. The sensory input was astonishing—the smell of vehicle exhaust mixed with food from vendor carts, the shouts of hawkers merged with symphonies from street entertainers, the awe-inspiring range of styles and accents, the gorgeous architectural wonders . . . and the cars.

The frenzied flow of tightly packed cars was unequal anything I’d ever seen. There was always an ambulance, patrol car, or fire engine trying to weave through the yellow taxis with the electronic wail of ear-splitting sirens that echoed long after they were out of sight. I was in wonder of the lumbering garbage trucks that navigated tiny one-way streets and the package delivery drivers who braved the motionless traffic while facing inflexible deadlines.

Real New Yorkers cruised right through it all, their love for the city as comfortable and familiar as a favourite pair of shoes. They didn’t view the steam billowing from potholes and vents in the side walks with euphoric delight, and they didn’t blink an eye when the ground vibrated beneath their feet as the subway roared by below, while I grinned like an idiot and flexed my toes. I had moved here for my fair share of independence and so far it was everything I wanted it to be. I was starry eyed and it showed.