They call it the city that never sleeps. The lights never dim. The wandering never ceases. That’s what lead me here today, 103 Waverly Place. Hotel Washington Square. 2:17 AM.
I watched a dirt road trail behind me as the man seated abaft me kicked the chair. A new beginning, I thought. This new life would be far away from that dirt road, replacing it with something paved and painted. Something that would feel more meaningful to me.
Twenty-one hours and forty-seven minutes later, exhaustedly excited, my feet hit the Manhattan soil that I craved. Immediately bustled among the crowds of Herald Square, I asked a man selling tickets to the top of the Empire State Building where to catch the downtown A train. Walking towards the subway station I watched anxious looking tourists stare upwards and passive aggressive men and women in work attire rush back to work. I realized that I had broke the odds. My life forty-eight hours ago looked like Little House on the Prairie. Now here I was, standing in the place everyone said I would never make it to. And this city was mine to explore.
It seemed nice. Cozy. A place my mother would say looked safe. The night was still young here in New York. But my eyes were becoming weary, my legs worn. I spent the day roaming the streets; trying to get my fill of concrete and city air before I made new discoveries the next day. Stumbling onto Waverly Place was well needed, the lights on the Hotel beckoning me to a bed I could rest my head on. The lights on the posts drawing me closer to another day. The lights fueling my dreams in this city that never sleeps.
By Chelsea Buranich
Photo taken by Jason Tompa