Above me was the U.S. Postal Service creed carved above dozens of granite columns:
"Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds."
Perseverance. I liked that. I was probably going to need a lot of that on my own appointed rounds here.
Suddenly, dirty-colored pigeons swooped down in front of me. Then beside me. Then all around me. I stamped my feet to scare them off. Rats with wings!
Across the street was the Penn Station taxi line I stood in just 18 hours before. The McDonald's from last night was in the next block. I hadn't exactly expanded my universe yet. Would I ever feel confident enough to walk wherever I wanted here?
I splayed out on the steps after my lunch, catching some rays. I had left my sunglasses in my room, so I squinted to watch the melting pot that was New York City. I took it all in like I was just watching TV. But it was better because it was Manhattan, live and unscripted. People scurried like agitated molecules. A biker zipped by blaring "La Vie En Rose" from a radio clipped to his handlebars. Beggars in wheelchairs rolled down the sidewalk and even out in the street, some with legs, some without.
My eyes drifted down to the greasy napkins and cigarette butts that littered the steps around me. Bird shit baked in the sun. A homeless guy napped against a busted cart. A skate punk with a rattail sat with his head between his knees. An old woman fed those same damn pigeons, ecstatic to see their generous friend.
This was going to be my new home.
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