This is the Second Post

Look, I'm terrible with titles. That's what editors are for.

So, I moved to New York.

It's very ... New-York-y. (Yes, I want to be a writer. Hemingway advocated never using unecessary adjectives, you know.) It's also very big. I can't say I'm fond of midtown, which is somehow dirtier than the rest of New York, and also somewhat sunless, presumably because the tall, tall buildings block it out.

I love my neighbourhood, though. The buildings are smaller and they're pretty and they look old. (Clearly I know nothing about architecture.) My roomate Dr. Kat refers to the balconies that pepper the front of our building (but one of which do not, unfortunately, grace our apt) as "Barcelona balconies", because, well, they remind her of the balconies she lounged on in Barcelona. (At this point in the conversation I interjected something mundane about Barca, ie, the Barcelona football team, and Dr. Kat, who is Scottish, looked mildly horrified as she realized that she had crossed the pond only to land up living with yet another football-mad lout.)

I live between Broadway and Amsterdam, on a (relatively) quiet residential street. There are trees and everything! I am surrounded by cultural icons: The Seinfeld diner is at one end of the street, St John the Divine on the other; and across the way there's a nuclear fall-out shelter. I feel very safe.