The puddle on Fifth Avenue was shaped exactly like Italy—boot and all. I stopped mid-stride to admire it, causing a man in a peacoat to swerve around me with an exasperated sigh. Sorry, sir, cartography waits for no one.
I've been testing a theory this week: if you walk the same route at different times of day, you meet entirely different cities. Morning Fifth is all coffee cups and determined strides. Lunch hour brings the tourists with their cameras angled skyward. But 3 PM on a Friday? That's when the city exhales. The pace slows. People actually look at storefronts instead of blowing past them.
Today I caught myself doing that thing where I narrate my surroundings like a nature documentary. "Here we observe the urban commuter in its natural habitat, navigating the treacherous terrain of scaffolding and sidewalk dining sheds." A woman waiting for the crosswalk gave me a look that suggested I'd said this out loud. Oops.