Fall is past, winter is here, and Christmas lights now line the city’s magnificent buildings. Wreaths frame doorways and their faded evergreen is nostalgic of a bygone era. I’m drinking gingerbread lattes and toffee-nut coffees, wrapped in my cold-weather gear as I reminisce of New York during the time of It Happened on Fifth Avenue and Miracle on 34th Street. Sentimental? Me? I might be worse than a Sandra Bullock movie.
I recently met a travel writer at a local bookstore’s holiday party. He is a much older gentleman from Europe, who moved to New York on a whim, expecting to only live here a few months. But on his flight home, he dreamed of Manhattan rising out of the sea. He since returned, met his wife, and has been here for decades.
We talked T.S. Eliot, the Upper West Side, and smoked salmon. I’ve read T.S. Eliot, dreamed of living on the Upper West Side, and have yet to taste smoked salmon. Regardless, he made the life he now lives. And while I have had no dreams of a city rising out of water, I appreciate passion. Passion is something we all need, and it often starts with the details.