In Park Slope, the sidewalks glow pink in the evening light. And all afternoon long, the roses duft – that is a German word, for “slowly disperse one’s aroma throughout the air” – for the pleasure of nearby noses of simply for the pleasure of the dufting itself.
In New York in summer, riding the train late at night, I sometimes get this feeling that my body is being pushed farther and farther toward some limit with which it will, at some point, become acquainted. It’s not cardiovascular but it’s physical. Nothing more than a few stitched-together pieces of thin fabric protect me from the city, which flings itself at me at every opportunity. It’s not that I’m under assault but the city and I are very present to one another. It makes me sweat, it sullies me, sudden rainstorms soak right through my clothes and I get very hungry. I’m often miles from home. It’s the urban version of going on a good hard hike, and sometimes it’s just as disorienting, and you get just as lost. The subway runs all hours so you can be whizzing through tunnels next to people you don’t know, when you should be snug in your house, deep into the night.
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