All travels are different, and i think that all the trips you go on are supposed to teach you something, about the world or yourself.
I don’t really know yet exactly what New York taught me.

Throughout the trip, i felt oddly disconnected with myself.
Almost a sense of unreality, or one long out of body experience.
My last trip had a clear purpose, work.
The one before that, however misguided, was for love.
This one was literally just because.
And because i didn’t really know why i was there, at times, i almost felt like i wasn’t.

We stayed in an apartment in Brooklyn that was very cold and extremely loud due to some batshit crazy neighbors, so we didn’t spend much time there.
Actually the only good thing about that place was Andrew, the guy who lived there, and that was about it.
The area was nice enough, though, and we were within walking distance from our friends and good coffee.

I spent a lot of time just walking.
I’d go to Manhattan with Wendy in the morning and walk with her to the tattoo shop, and then set out to discover the city.
Some days with a destination in mind, mostly café’s recommended to me by instagram followers, and some days just armed with my camera and google maps.
We went to clubs and bars, ate amazing food, met some cool people, hung out with old friends, took selfies with our selfie stick, danced, got sweet new tattoos, and generally had a shit ton of fun.

And the city blew me away.
The first day when we took the train from Brooklyn and crossed the bridge, seeing Manhattan from the train for the first time, i felt like i was in a movie.
It looked like a scene from Dark City or Blade Runner, something that couldn’t possibly be a real place.
I think i’ve mentioned before that i love big cities and big buildings.
I like cities that overwhelm me, and New York sure as fuck did.
But i didn’t fall in love.
I fell in some deep like, and i can think of a million reasons to go back and visit, but it didn’t feel like home to me, the way Tokyo always does, or the way Mexico City did.